


once more, like it's our last

by bellpickle



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Of the many-worlds variety, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 28,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9069007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellpickle/pseuds/bellpickle
Summary: “It wasn’t like this last time. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Noctis presses his lips against Prompto's forehead, on the one patch of skin not speckled with blood. “I’ll go all the way back this time, to the beginning. And I’ll fix everything. I promise.”-----Noctis leaps back in time.{Chinese translation available - thank you LouieLawliet!}





	1. Twenty

Prompto listens for footsteps. His eyelids feel bloated and heavy, the swelling so severe that he can only peek at his surroundings—and even then, all he can make out are monstrous silhouettes along a lightless hall. So he rests his eyes and listens. In the distance, he hears the mechanical clicks of the MTs, their bodies creaking and hissing with every disjointed movement. If he had a wrench, he thinks he could take one apart; dig his fingers into the grooves and rip the armor off piece by piece. He wonders what he would find inside.

“Your kind have always been a mystery to me.”

His head jerks in surprise at the sudden intrusion, prompting a raspy groan as his neck muscles spasm in retaliation.  _ Slow and steady _ , he reminds himself as he carefully sags against his restraints.

“Try as they did, the researchers never could figure out the pattern behind the transformations,” Ardyn continues. His voice sounds closer than usual, but it’s impossible to tell whether he’s in the room or not. His footsteps are silent, as if weightless. “At first, they thought genetics might determine the subjects’ daemon forms. They began transforming entire families, but they saw no pattern, no reason as to why one subject turned into a ghoul and another an imp. The researchers had their theories, but do you know what I think?” Prompto felt a cold breath against the exposed flesh of his neck and knew that Ardyn was near— _ too _ near. “I think it’s all random. Meaningless. Your dear mother took the shape of a snake. I wonder what kind of daemon  _ you _ might become?”

For some reason, Prompto feels the urge to laugh. He supposes it’s all he has left. He’s survived this far on the graces of good humor; why not laugh even now, at what might be the very end? He tries, but his throat feels too parched to let out anything but a sad croak. He thinks about his throat, and of cold, delicious water, and refuses to consider Ardyn’s question or the comment on his mother. He can’t allow himself to dwell on it.

A faint rustling sound interrupts his thoughts, then: “Congratulations! Your long-awaited guests have finally arrived.”

The words filter into his mind slowly, like grains through a funnel. He listens for footsteps … and this time, he hears them. Beyond the rustling sound that draws closer and closer, beyond the mechanical clicks of the MTs, he hears the frantic  _ thump thump _ of feet against stone—three pairs, headed directly for him. He can’t help the rekindling of hope deep inside him, though he tries to resist. Ardyn’s statements are like riddles, and Prompto can only imagine what cruel irony awaits him at the end of this one.

Then he feels it: a coldness against his belly, followed by a pain so severe that it almost seems sweet. He tries to scream, but again, his throat is too dry for it. The coldness retracts—slowly, teasingly—and in its place is a warm liquid that spills down his abdomen. The now-familiar stench of iron clogs his nostrils.

He still hears the footsteps, but they seem more distant now, like fading echoes. When his body hits the floor, he barely notices.  _Noct,_ he thinks. _I’m sorry._

* * *

 

A voice is speaking to him. His whole body hurts, and his stomach especially, but he ignores the pain and focuses only on the sound.

“-wasn’t like this last time. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” The voice trembles with every word, though whether with anger or with sadness, Prompto isn’t quite sure. Something warm presses gently against his forehead. “I’ll go all the way back this time, to the beginning. And I’ll fix everything. I promise.”

He opens his eyes as wide as they’ll go. In the corner, he sees Gladio and Iggy standing elbow-to-elbow, though both are turned away, as if they can’t bear to look at him. Noctis is hovering directly above him, but his eyes are closed now. Fresh tears streak both his cheeks. Prompto allows his own eyes to close and listens to the soothing  _ thump thump _ of Noctis’ heart.  _Like footsteps_ , he thinks. And then he hears nothing at all. 


	2. Fourteen

Prompto inspects himself in the mirror of the boys’ bathroom for what feels like the dozenth time in the past hour. He glares at his reflection and fiddles with a lock of hair, though he knows it’s perfectly styled. The boy at the sink, a senior by the looks of it, stares at him like he’s crazy—which for all Prompto knows, he might be. Would a sane person put this much effort into befriending someone?

He takes a deep breath and glances at the minute hand of his wristwatch, which has barely moved since he last checked. Seven thirty-two. The next half hour will make or break him, and the thought alone sends his heart flopping against his ribcage like a dying fish. _Don’t think about it, just do it._ He repeats the mantra over and over as he finally exits the bathroom and marches straight through the school courtyard.

He spots the prince immediately—but then again, who _doesn’t_ notice him? Every student in the vicinity hovers near him, though each retains a respectful distance, like planets orbiting a bright star. The prince furtively glances around the area, not looking _at_ the nearby students so much as _through_ them, as if searching for someone in particular—a friend, maybe, in the upper grades. The suspicion only hastens Prompto’s walk, which becomes more of a half-jog. _Be cool_ , he reminds himself as he draws close, close enough to make out the slight look of worry on the prince’s face and _wow_ , even his jeans look like they’re superior to everyone else’s and-

And then the prince turns towards him and stares him dead in the eye. Prompto freezes so fast that he thinks the soles of his sneakers might’ve made a squeaking noise against the pavement. The prince’s eyes widen and for a second, there’s an emotion there that Prompto can’t quite decipher. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.

The prince takes a step towards him and then another, and Prompto is overflowing with the sudden urge to turn tail and run, run as far as his legs can take him. The beach is about a mile out east; maybe he can run straight into the waves and drown himself. But he remains rooted to his spot, for reasons that are beyond him. There’s something about the prince’s gaze—blue like his own eyes, but deeper, like water illuminated in the moon’s light—that compels him from looking away.

The prince stops directly in front of him. His eyes travel down the length of Prompto’s body, carefully—maybe scanning him for defects? or does he remember how he looked in middle school?—and Prompto is certain that this is the worst thing that could possibly happen to him. When the prince meets his gaze once more, he looks amused, as if he were recalling some private joke. “Prompto,” the prince says.

It’s a statement, but Prompto responds to it as though it were a question. “Y-yeah. That’s me.” Before he can stop himself, he adds, “Your majesty.”

For a second, the prince only stares at him. Then in the next moment, he’s laughing with his head thrown back, great whooping gusts of laughter that attracts the attention of everyone within a fifty meter radius. It feels like the whole school is scrutinizing him, and Prompto wishes in that moment that he could shrink to the size of a bread crumb and float away in the wind.

But when the laughter calms, the prince is smiling at him: a big, beautiful, _familiar_ smile, as if he’s known Prompto for longer than either of them can remember. “Just call me Noctis,” he says, accompanying the statement with a friendly clap on the back. Then he pauses in thought, his hand lingering on Prompto’s shoulder. “You can also call me Noct. If you want.”

Prompto stares in response—and to his amazement, Noctis stares back. His hand is still resting on his shoulder, which Prompto becomes more and more conscious of with every passing second.

Then, finally, Noctis moves back and his hand falls, landing with a pat against his hip. He takes two steps towards the school entrance before turning back to face him. “You coming?”

Noctis smiles, and this time Prompto has the good sense to smile in return.


	3. Fourteen pt. II

When the weather’s warm enough, Prompto eats his lunch on the school roof. Or more accurately, he scarfs down a sandwich on the way to the roof and then spends the remainder of his break snapping photos of the surrounding cityscape. Though the nearby skyscrapers dwarf their comparatively tiny five-story building, the roof still provides him with a decent view of two of the crown city’s most famous attractions. To the south lies the electric town shopping district, with its dancing colors and beckoning lights; to the north are the immaculately kept royal gardens, still lush and vibrant despite the turning of the leaves.

On this day, Prompto turns his lens to the north. The angle and intensity of the sun casts longer-than-usual shadows over the gardens; he needs a slightly higher vantage point to make the lighting look _just_ right. He ignores the curious stares from the few odd students camped out on the roof with him and climbs atop an HVAC unit, swallowing nervously as its metal walls rattle under his weight. _The sacrifices I make for art_ , he thinks as he frames the shot. He decides to take a wide shot, positioning the gardens in the foreground. Beyond it, towards the horizon, sits the palace—an imposing and monolithic structure to behold, even from a distance. The shutter blinks with an audible click.

“The palace again, huh?”

Prompto yelps in surprise, nearly tumbling to the ground in the process. Still balancing on the HVAC, he cradles the camera in his arms as he turns to address the newcomer. “Ahah, yeah. Is it creepy that I’m taking pictures of your house?”

“Nah. It’s only creepy if you use the zoom.” Noctis offers a hand to help him down, which Prompto gratefully accepts. The prince’s skin feels warm, even when tempered by the chilly breeze. When their hands remain linked for a few beats longer than necessary, Prompto feels something akin to gratitude. He can hear the thumping of his own heart, turned frantic in Noctis’ presence. Though they’ve been talking nearly everyday for the past couple months, even the smallest interactions still invoke his old, residual panic—leftovers from the years spent watching the prince from afar.

Oblivious to his internal freakout, Noctis asks, “New camera?” He accompanies the question with a wry smile, as if he already knows the answer.

Prompto visibly brightens. He balances the camera on his palm and lifts it above his head, like a raised pedestal. “Yeah! I got it over the weekend. Pretty sweet, huh?” He scoots close to Noctis and flips through his fledgling photo gallery, all while practically vomiting out information about the camera’s numerous features and functionalities; Noctis nods at the appropriate moments, listening with an enduring patience. Prompto chooses not to mention the price tag, nor that he survived on nothing but rice and eggs for weeks in order to raise the funds for it.

He stops at the photo of the palace. It’s decent as far as landscape shots go: both the gardens and the palace are in focus, and despite the abundance of sunlight, neither subjects are overexposed. But it also feels impersonal, like a promotional picture in a brochure.

Prompto switches the setting back to camera mode, but this time, he directs the lens towards Noctis. “Want me to take a pic of you and the palace? I’ll call it, ‘A Prince in His Natural Habitat’.”

Noctis shrugs. “Sure, if it’ll-” He pauses mid-sentence, his gaze drifting sideways in thought. When their eyes meet once more, there’s an unfamiliar heat in Noctis’ stare. “Actually, I’d rather have a picture of you.”

At first, Prompto convinces himself that he must’ve misheard. “W-what?” he stutters. His voice sounds like it’s jumped two octaves, but he barely notices it over the swollen, tingly sensation in his chest—like the high he feels after a good run but way, way better.

Noctis’ smile widens as he gestures to the camera with an outstretched hand. “Come on. Let someone take _your_ photo for a change.”

Prompto glances down at his camera, then at Noctis’ hand. Reluctantly, he relinquishes the camera and takes a couple steps back, balling his hands to keep from fidgeting. Pinching the camera between both hands, Noctis lifts it to about chin-height and inspects the preview screen with a deeply furrowed brow.

As Noctis fiddles with the angle of the shot, Prompto lets out a shaky breath and tries to loosen the tension in his shoulders. He thinks of himself as a natural observer, a guy on the outside looking in. Becoming the observed leaves him feeling vulnerable. Exposed, even. He smiles and hopes his nerves don’t show.

Noctis doesn’t bother with a countdown; he hits the shutter button the moment he’s ready for it. Prompto grabs the camera back with an unrestrained eagerness, the tingling in his chest collapsing into an almost suffocating pressure. The photo pops onto the camera’s screen, and his eyes widen in surprise. Admittedly, the shot is a little crooked. But it’s a smaller, more intimate photograph than he expected. The gardens have been reduced to a green blur in the background, and Prompto’s face fills most of the frame. The sunlight falls delicately across his features, imbuing his blond hair with a warm, golden glow—like the swaying fields of wheat depicted in photos of the countryside. His grin is infectiously wide, eyes crinkled in delight. Even Prompto has to admit … he looks good.

“You can delete it if you want,” Noctis says, his voice unusually gruff. He’s facing the floor, arms crossed along his chest, as if bracing himself for attack.

 _So even the prince gets self-conscious_ , Prompto thinks. The realization makes him feel lighter—but also a bit foolish, like a boy wildly grasping for something that had always been perfectly within reach. “Nah,” he says, turning the camera so that Noctis can see his own work. “This one’s definitely a keeper! You're a natural ... naturally.”

Noctis leans in for a closer look. Their hands brush as Noctis reaches towards the camera, and this time, Prompto forgets to feel embarrassed.


	4. Fifteen

The reds and yellows of autumn inevitably wither. The plants disintegrate into dried flakes as the temperature dips below freezing, paving the path for another unforgiving Lucian winter. The cold is harsh even within the crown city’s fortified walls, but of greater concern to Prompto is the rising cost of food. There are few crops that thrive in the winter, and deprived as they are of imports from Niflheim territories, the pickings are depressingly slim.  

So far, this winter is proving to be even worse than usual. Barely the new year and the cost of lettuce alone has tripled. Prompto is all too aware that cup noodles and cheeseburgers are some of the few remaining foods that are wholly affordable for him—but he refuses to go down _that_ road ever again. Instead, he rations what little he has (lettuce, bread, cheese, and eggs on most days) and tries to ignore the grumbling of his stomach.

“Is that all you’re eating?” Noctis asks during lunch one afternoon. They both decided to forego the crowded cafeteria and are now readying their homemade meals atop their desks. Prompto’s mouth waters at the mere sight of Noctis’ food: a generous cut of steak with just a spot of redness at its center, along with a side of roasted greens and sweet potatoes. When he breathes in the scent of the potatoes, Prompto almost moans. He looks down at his own lunch in embarrassment: two pieces of toast, a wedge of cheese, and a hardboiled egg.

Prompto cracks the egg against the edge of his desk and begins peeling the shell. “You’d be surprised. It doesn’t take much to fuel a tiny guy like me.” He clears his throat before adding, “Though I could _definitely_ make room for one of those sweet potatoes. Or two.”

With an eyeroll, Noctis uses his fork to transfer a couple potato slices onto his toast. Then Noctis cuts off a portion of the steak and wordlessly offers it to him as well. Initially, Prompto refuses. “Seriously, I’m fine. You don’t have to-”

Noctis interrupts him with a wave of his hand. “I ate a big breakfast. Besides, I don’t even like steak that much.”

Prompto eyes the piece of steak, which glistens at him tauntingly. “Well,” he says, trying (and failing) to disguise his eagerness. “Only because you insist.” He chews and swallows it in one bite, and predictably, it’s the best thing he’s had in weeks.

Following the surprisingly filling lunch, he doesn’t think about food again until he’s walking home from school. The thought of his mostly empty mini-fridge instantly deflates his good mood. He’s contemplating whether to finish what remains of his fast-wilting lettuce when he feels his phone vibrate within his coat pocket. His breath catches upon seeing the name Noctis displayed on the screen.

> Hey. If you’re free, come by my apartment for dinner. There’s still lots of leftover steak.

Prompto’s widened, disbelieving eyes dart between the message and the name of its sender. On his second reread, it dawns on him that Noctis lives in an apartment of his own—until that point, he assumed that the prince still resided in the palace. A rising tide of questions well up in his mind, a couple of which he includes in his reply.

> Dude. You know I can’t say no to free food. Where do you live? Should I head over now?

He receives a response almost immediately. Though he’s never been to the area in which Noctis lives, he certainly knows _of_ it; predictably, the prince resides in the wealthiest district in the city outside of the palace itself. He ducks into a nearby subway station and squeezes his way onto a rapid transit train. It’s the height of rush hour and the trains are overstuffed and humid, the passengers lined up against one another like packed sardines. When Prompto claws his way out ten minutes later, he’s moist with sweat.

Insomnia is a tall city, glutted with looming towers and teetering spires that stretch from the city center to the very border of the wall. But nowhere does the metal and glass sparkle quite like it does in the Golden Lion district, and upon emerging from the station, Prompto feels almost blinded from it. Boutique pastry shops and speciality food stores line the streets, each one the color of a spring garden. Prompto ignores the tempting aromas wafting from the opened doors and makes a beeline for the intersection written in Noctis’ text.

The building in question, one of the tallest in the area, lies behind a formidable iron gate. Beside the entryway is a panel displaying a long row of buttons, each labelled with a number and a letter. He texts Noctis to ask which button to press and receives the following response:

> 51A. My advisor will meet you downstairs. Don’t worry, he’s nicer than he seems.

Prompto lifts a brow at the message’s cryptic ending before pressing the button as directed. An unfamiliar, accented voice answers, “Please wait a moment.”

And so, Prompto waits with all the patience of an eager puppy, anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He squints his eyes at the doors beyond the gate and wonders what, exactly, the prince’s advisor is expected to do in his day-to-day. Does he help Noctis with his homework?

Soon enough, the doors open inwards and out walks a taller, slightly older man—though not nearly as old as Prompto was expecting. He’s dressed in formal slacks and a button-up shirt, and carries himself with all the composure of a high-falutin businessman ... except he doesn’t look a day older than seventeen, even with the stern eyeglasses. Their gazes meet and Prompto feels immediately on edge.

The man comes to a halt right before the gate. His eyes scan the entire length of his body before snapping back up to his face. “It’s Prompto, yes?” Prompto nods his head—perhaps a little too vigorously. Something like a smile twitches across the man’s lips. “You may call me Ignis. Advisor to the royal family.”

“Oh, um. Nice to meet you.” The words feel lame even as they leave Prompto’s mouth, but a better response eludes him. Ignis finally open the gate and ushers him inside. A cavernous, dome-like lobby leads directly to a more modest elevator bank. Inside the elevator, Prompto says, “Um, if you don’t mind me asking ... what’s for dinner?”

This time, Ignis smiles more openly. “Ah, cutting directly to the heart of the matter, then? A better question is, what do you prefer to eat?”

“Anything but raw lettuce,” Prompto says, unthinkingly. The reply garners him an odd look, so he hastily adds, “I had some of the steak that Noctis brought to school today. I don’t know what that animal was, but it was delicious.”

Ignis’ eyes flash and for a second, Prompto thinks he revealed something he shouldn’t have. “The prince shared his food with you? That’s rather unlike him.” At Prompto’s questioning look, Ignis adds, “I’ve fought long and hard to teach him otherwise, but the prince is notoriously stingy with his food. The only person he’s generous with is Lady Lunafreya.” He pauses, his eyes scanning Prompto with renewed interest. “And now, you.”

They arrive at the topmost floor. Prompto strays a few steps behind Ignis as he chews over the new morsel of information. He knows of Lady Lunafreya—virtually everyone on Eos does—though his connection to her is more intimate than most. In their conversations, Noctis sometimes refers to “an old childhood friend”, though he has yet to mention Lunafreya by name. Idly, Prompto wonders if Noctis mentions him, too, in his conversations with her.

Ignis knocks twice before opening the door. The apartment is plainer than Prompto expected; stylish but sparsely furnished, like a home that’s not fully lived-in. Beyond the foyer, he spots Noctis sitting at a dining table near the kitchen, schoolbooks and worksheets fanned out before him in a semicircle. Noctis jumps up from the table, abandoning his homework the moment Prompto walks in. “Finally. Specs refused to feed me until you got here.”

Ignis bumps his glasses up the bridge of his nose before tossing Noctis a weary look. “As you’re well aware, it’s rude to begin serving before the guest’s arrival.” He disappears into the kitchen, evading the sigh that escapes Noctis’ lips.

Noctis unceremoniously sweeps his arm across the table, shoveling his books into a messy pile. Prompto takes the seat across from him as Ignis reemerges from the kitchen, a platter balancing on each hand. One contains a creamy risotto; the other, vegetable shish kebabs. The sight of them alone urges Prompto to lick his lips in anticipation.

“I hope this will sufficiently tide you two over until the steak is ready,” Ignis says. Then, glancing at Noctis, he adds, “Though knowing the prince’s voracious appetite, it’s unlikely.”

Noctis ignores the jab and digs his spoon straight into the risotto. Ignis turns back towards the kitchen, but stops part way and asks, “Would you be partial to a cup of coffee? I have a pot brewing already.”

“Coffee?” Prompto asks, incredulous. “Aren’t we all a little young to be drinking that stuff?”

Ignis’ lips tug downwards into a disapproving frown. He adjusts his glasses once more, his voice taking on a more obstinate tone. “That _stuff_ consists of the highest quality coffee beans in the region, mixed with spring water extracted from the base of Ravatogh itself. And one can appreciate a top notch brew at any age. If you haven’t had the pleasure of tasting excellent coffee for yourself, then I insist that you do so now.”

Prompto stares at him for a long moment. “Uh,” he begins to say, but Ignis retreats to the kitchen without waiting for his response. He turns to Noctis, cupping his mouth with his hand as he whispers, “Geez, Noct. Your advisor is like a walking infomercial.”

Noctis chokes on a mouthful of risotto, a laugh threatening to bubble from his throat. From the kitchen, the both of them catch a muttered, “I heard that.”

Ignis returns a minute later with a piping hot mug, which he sets directly beside Prompto’s plate. Then he crosses his arms and waits, pinning him with an expectant stare. Prompto brings the lip of the mug to his mouth and takes a tiny sip. It’s not exactly _bad_ , he thinks; there’s a nuttiness to the bitter flavor that’s sort of pleasant … but he finds himself wishing that it had more sugar. A lot more sugar.

“Well?” Ignis asks.

“It’s, uh.” Prompto clears his throat. “It’s … good.”

Noctis snorts, loudly. Ignis lets out a long-suffering sigh as he reclaims the mug. “I see. Would you prefer water or soda?”

Prompto answers “soda” with a sheepish grin. In a matter of minutes, he and Noctis make quick work of the appetizers. At one point, the two of them end up dueling each other across the table with the wooden shish kebab sticks, but Ignis easily dissolves their fight with the arrival of the steak.

It’s approximately when Ignis sets the platter down on the table—the air rich with the tantalizing smell of the meat, Noctis and Ignis playfully bickering about something that happened the day before, the taste of the risotto lingering on his tongue—that Prompto feels a sweet stinging at the corners of his eyes. There’s a fullness in his stomach, but also in his chest; a warm, almost painful heaviness that feels foreign to him. He takes a deep breath, fighting the tears. For now, Prompto decides to enjoy the moment: the warmth, the food, the new friends.

In the months following, Noctis invites him over for dinner with increasing frequency. Prompto always answers yes.


	5. Fifteen pt.II

Something of a routine emerges, naturally, like fresh soil from thawed ice. On weekdays, when he doesn’t have a photography club meeting after school, Prompto usually ends up at Noctis’ apartment. On weekends, he tends to drop by unannounced.

Ignis buzzes him in as usual. It’s a couple hours before lunchtime, and Prompto already knows that Noctis is at the palace, meeting with his father. Despite Noctis’ absence, he visits anyway, on the pretense of helping Ignis prepare the food—which they both know is Promptospeak for “sample the ingredients and talk Iggy’s ear off while he cooks.” But when he knocks on the door of apartment 51A, it’s not Ignis who greets him on the other side.

“Hey,” says a man he doesn't recognize, who then leans against the doorframe. “So _you’re_ the prince’s new best friend. Nice to finally meet you.” The man extends a hand in greeting. Large swaths of dark tattooed ink curl down the length of the man’s arms. A spiral of jagged peaks stretch across the man’s forearms, and at first, Prompto mistakes them for flames. But through the man’s sheer, tight-fitting tanktop, he makes out the shape of a bird’s head and gaping beak—and he realizes that the flames are, in fact, feathers.

The man’s hand is solid and unyielding, his skin rough with calluses. Their handshake drags a few seconds too long, as the other man grips him with an excessive amount of pressure. He flashes Prompto a smile that’s all teeth, and then finally releases him.

“So,” Prompto says, massaging his abused hand at his back. “Let me guess, big guy like you must be … Kingsglaive?”

The man’s smile widens. “Not quite.” Prompto waits, but the man chooses not to elaborate. Instead, he gives Prompto a once over and says, “Iggy’s busy figuring out a new recipe. Why don’t the two of us get some exercise before we eat?”

“That sounds … fun and all, but I think I’ll pass.” Prompto tries in vain to squeeze through the doorway. He peeks over the man’s shoulder and sees Ignis in the kitchen, mixing something in a large bowl.

But the man straightens his back and blocks Ignis from view. “Let’s not disturb his concentration. Besides, a meal always tastes better once you’ve _earned_ it.”

“I think food tastes good in any situa-” Prompto begins to say, but the man slings an arm around his shoulders and drags him away from the door.

From inside the apartment, he hears Ignis call out, “The prince is rather fond of this one, Gladio. Try not to break him.”

“Wait, what?” Prompto croaks, right before the door slams shut. The man—Gladio, apparently—keeps a firm hold over his shoulders, and doesn’t relent until they’ve stepped beyond the entrance gate.

“So,” Gladio says, turning to face him. “Because you’re new to this, I’ll make things easy for you. Let’s just go on a nice, quick run on the beach.” Prompto nods, feeling slightly more at ease. If it was sparring or lifting weights, he’d get laughed out the building. But running? He could do running.

The beach is a mercifully short distance from the apartment, and throughout the entire walk, Prompto endures what basically amounts to an interrogation. The questions start off fairly innocently: where he lives, how long he and Noctis have known each other, how the two of them became friends. But then he asks, “What does your family think about you spending so much time with the crown prince?”

There’s a long, incriminating pause as Prompto decides on his answer. He considers his usual method of responding with something vague, until he notes Gladio’s face—muscles taut, eyes narrowed, lips pressed in a thin line—and thinks better of it. Eventually, he settles on something nearing the truth. “I don’t really have a family. I’ve been alone for as long as I can remember. Pretty depressing, huh?” Prompto attempts to lighten the mood with a wry laugh, but it comes out ugly, like a volley of hiccups rattling through his chest.

Gladio stares straight ahead, at the billowing waves in the distance. Prompto expects some sort of judgment; maybe a remark about orphans mixing with royalty or an expression of wonderment that the prince would take interest in him at all. What he doesn’t expect is for Gladio to mumble a quick “sorry to hear that, kid” before dropping the topic altogether.

The paved sidewalk disappears beneath the windswept grains of a mostly empty sandbar. A cool breeze glides across the water’s surface, transporting the scent of salt and sea life. Gladio stops at the peak of a sandy hill and bows with unbent legs, reaching till his palms touch the floor. Prompto takes the cue to do a few stretches of his own and plops onto the ground. He reaches for his toes and grimaces at the strain in his hamstrings; he’s definitely rusty. At his side, he hears Gladio say, “Let’s run all the way to the end of the beach. Should take about fifteen minutes, twenty if you’re slow.”

Prompto hops to his feet. He leans his weight against one leg and glances at Gladio, who adopts a similar stance. “Okay, big guy. Is this a race?”

“Nah,” Gladio replies with a smirk. “The prince’ll get mad if I humiliate a friend of his.” He starts counting down before Prompto has the chance to think of a comeback. At the signal, they both lunge forward, sprinting with all the speed their legs can muster. The dry sand shifts beneath his feet, spraying outwards in a wide arc with every step. Prompto nearly slips on a particularly loose patch of sand and loses some ground, lengthening the gap between him and Gladio.

After several minutes, Prompto’s breath becomes ragged from exertion. It feels as though he’s moving at half his regular speed, and seeing Gladio outpace him by several feet further dampens his morale. Beyond the bend of the ocean, he sees the end of the beach at a distance, the point where the sand hits a wall of jagged rocks. The ground moistens the further they run; the foamy water lathers their feet and offers a smattering of broken shells, as well as the occasional tangle of seaweed.

With the end in sight, Prompto takes a deep, gasping breath and strains his body to its limit, limbs stretching and hips twisting in tandem with every step. He ignores the burning in his lungs and focuses only on Gladio’s back, which grows closer with every passing step. Soon, he’s close enough to reach out and touch the other man’s shoulder, the adrenaline pushing him to run even further, faster and faster, until they’re almost side-by-side, and even Gladio looks surprised that he caught u-

There’s a smoothness under Prompto’s foot and a sudden, flailing weightlessness as his whole body violently pitches forward and then down, down till all he sees is sand. He lands onto his forearms, skidding from sheer momentum before coming to a halt. For a moment, he remains stuck to the ground like a stranded piece of driftwood, sand particles floating into his hair and mouth. A few feet ahead, he hears a victorious roar of a laugh—though it is not entirely unkind.

When he rolls onto his back, Gladio is standing over him, shoulders still shaking from his fading laughter. His hair sways gloriously in the wind, like a ruffled lion’s mane. “Well, if anything, I’ll have to give you an A for effort. Enjoy the taste of the sand?”

Prompto stares blearily up at the sky and lets out a pathetic groan. “Just leave me here, will you? The tide should sweep me away by morning.”

Gladio just smirks as he offers his hand. Prompto accepts and allows the other man to tug him back to his feet. “Let’s go, kid. You’ve clearly had enough for one day. We can play it safe and walk back to the apartment.”

They trudge back the way they came, across the length of the beach. Throughout their return journey, Prompto notices that Gladio seems less tense than before, his posture now lax and unguarded. Perhaps his clumsy fall earned him some twisted version of trust, or at least endearment.

When they arrive at the apartment, Noctis is waiting in the kitchen alongside Ignis, who’s putting the finishing touches on their meal—handmade ravioli from the looks of it. The sweet scent of melted butter and sage hangs thick in the air. The moment Noctis sees Gladio, his mouth twists into a scowl. “Could you ask me beforehand the next time you decide to kidnap one of my friends?”

“What?” Gladio says with a grin. “Jealous you got left out?”

Noctis huffs, crossing his arms defensively. “Not really. I bet you just went running anyway.”

“Actually, I was telling your friend here about all the embarrassing stories from your childhood.”

It’s a lie, but seeing Noctis’ eyes go wide with panic piques Prompto's curiosity. “Which stories?” Noctis asks, his scowl deepening. “Because half of them aren’t true anyway.”

“But,” Prompto says with a teasing smile, “That means half of them _are_ true.”

“Like the story of the young prince running buck nude through the royal gardens during an outdoor banquet.”

“Ah, yes,” Ignis chimes in from the kitchen. “That particular story is famous even amongst foreign ambassadors. Who could forget the sight of a toddler shedding his clothes right in the heart of the crowd? And the king’s son, no less.”

“I know I can’t,” Gladio says with a snigger. He attempts to pinch Noctis’ cheeks in jest, but Noctis slaps his hand away and slumps into the nearest chair, defeated.

“You guys are the worst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I had *the* hardest time writing Gladio's dialogue without adding in a bunch of unintentional innuendo. Scrapped lines include:
> 
> “So you’re the prince’s new best friend. Cute.”  
> “His hand is hard as a rock.”  
> “You’re new to this, so I’ll be gentle with you.”  
> “Prompto’s had enough salt for one day.”
> 
> [Stupid, sexy Gladio.](http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/finalfantasy/images/e/e6/FFXV_Twitter_Gladiolus_Basketball.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20151102064909)


	6. Fifteen pt.III

For the dozenth time in the past hour, Prompto asks himself just what the hell he’s doing at this party. He dodges the cluster of people loitering around the center of the ballroom and slinks over to the quietest corner, fiddling with the cufflinks of his borrowed jacket. Despite Noctis’ repeated reassurances, Prompto retains some lingering doubt regarding his appearance. Though the black wool flatters his figure, it’s still obvious that the suit isn’t tailored for him; the jacket poofs at the shoulders, and when fully unfurled, the sleeves stretch to the middle of his palms. Worst of all, the gold chain of a pocketwatch jingles awkwardly across the midriff of his vest—an accoutrement that practically screams “this was made for Ignis”.

Prompto gives up fussing over his sleeves and snags his fifth garula meatball from the tray of a passing waiter. As he pops the meatball into his mouth, his gaze wanders to the crowd at the opposite end of the room. Noctis stands at its center, eyes darting left-to-right as he juggles three conversations at once. Prompto recognizes two of the girls he’s speaking with: one is the daughter of a famous billionaire, the other a popular actress—and in their presence, Prompto feels small.

There’s a vibration in his pocket, and he hastily makes a grab for his phone, grateful for the distraction. Earlier in the night, he sent a text to Gladio asking if he would consider stopping by on the pretense of guarding the prince. Gladio’s response simply reads:

> Nice try, but I never go to soirees. Besides, you’re the one he invited. So deal with it.

With a pout, Prompto merely replies with:

> You’re no fun. :(

He then pockets his phone and glances back up—only to be met with Noctis’ clear-eyed gaze, staring past the buzzing crowds, the milling waiters, and landing directly onto him. Prompto’s cheeks heat up in embarrassment, filling him with a newfound shame. Being watched makes him painfully aware of his own lonely surroundings, of the dozens of conversations he’s not a part of, and of the bubbly excitement that seems to infect everyone but him.

Prompto tears his gaze away from Noctis and looks instead for the closest exit. He hugs the wall as he slowly makes his way towards the doors and, once he’s close enough, he slips out unnoticed. On the other side is a wide, glittering corridor: sculpted golden panels line both sides of a marble hall, and a row of crystal chandeliers twinkles from high above. Prompto breathes a sigh of relief upon noting that this area is considerably emptier than the ballroom he emerged from. He catches a glimpse of himself on the reflective surface of the walls and notes his unnaturally slicked hair, the strands stiff and heavy from the generous globs of hair gel that Ignis applied earlier that night. In an act of rebellion, he runs his fingers through the coiffe and tousles it until it’s regained some semblance of its normal appearance.

There’s a warm breeze wafting in from somewhere further down the hallway. Prompto strolls towards it and finds an opened set of doors leading to a stone balcony. From this high up, the view of the sky is clear and unobstructed. The hotel is located far enough from the city center that the brightest stars are still visible; if he cranes his neck, Prompto can faintly make out the jagged six-star chain that forms the Leviathan constellation. To its left is the trident of Bahamut, though the city lights obscure the star that creates its middle spike.

There’s a light tap on his shoulder, and Prompto yelps in surprise. He turns to find Noctis eyeing him with an amused fondness. “Made a break for it, huh?”

Prompto makes a sound that’s caught between a chuckle and a sigh. “You got me. Sorry, Noct, but this is just … really not my scene.”

Noctis takes the empty spot at his side, resting his folded arms atop the balcony railing. He shoots Prompto a quick sideways glance before replying, “Don’t sweat it. I hate stuff like this too.”

A comfortable silence falls between them. The noise from the party is still audible even from this distance; when he listens closely enough, Prompto can still hear the dull roar of the incessant chatter, as well as the wailing strings of the violinists serenading the crowd. The inside of the ballroom is like a portal to a different world, one that Prompto would never be allowed to even glimpse if it weren’t for...

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” Noctis says, interrupting his thoughts.

Prompto glances at his friend, who is staring outwards, towards the skyscrapers looming over the city like tall shadows over a starry backdrop. He takes a long, steady breath before asking, “This is a weird question but … do you like being the prince?”

Noctis visibly tenses. Eventually, he relaxes just enough to give a casual shrug. “I … I can’t really say,” he confesses, in an even quieter voice than usual. “It’s not even a matter of liking it or not. Being the prince is the only life I know.” After a hesitant pause, he adds, “Why do you ask?”

Prompto runs a hand through his mussed hair, uncertain of how to respond. His mind feels muddled, crowded with confused flashes of emotion rather than fully-formed thoughts. “It’s just,” he finally says. “It’s just that, I guess I sometimes feel … I don’t want to say _jealous_ but-” he sighs in frustration and decides to start over. “I know being the prince is hard for you in a lot of ways, but at the same time … you were born with greatness. You’re automatically important to each person you meet. Whereas someone like me...” He pauses, swallowing through a sudden lump in his throat. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Noctis looking at him with a kind inquisitiveness, silently urging him onwards. “Whereas _I_  need to struggle, constantly, to prove that I'm worthwhile to anyone. Even to myself.”

His mouth snaps shut with an audible click. There’s a tremble in his hands and a pounding in his ears. The admission makes him feel small and weak, even moreso than the constant teasing he endured as a child—and Prompto realizes in that moment how scary it is to utterly expose himself, to place his heart in the hands of another and trust that they won’t crush it.

Noctis shifts, seeming visibly uncomfortable. He clears his throat, loudly. “Well, for what it’s worth,” he begins, and then turns slightly away, as if embarrassed by his own words, “To me, you’re way more than just worthwhile.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but once they do, Prompto finally summons the courage to look at Noctis, who is now peeking at him from the corner of his eyes. A smile spreads across Prompto’s lips. “Thanks, Noct.”

They fall into silence once more. The noise from the party has only increased in volume, but Prompto finds that he minds it less now. At his side, Noctis straightens his back, stretches, and then says, “Wanna head out? That curry shop that you like should still be open, if you feel like eating a real dinner.”

“What about the party?” Prompto asks, gesturing in the direction of the ballroom. “Won’t your dad be pissed if you leave this early?”

“I think I’ve made enough of an appearance to avoid the royal scolding. Besides,” Noctis pauses to smile, and Prompto’s chest grows warm at the sight of it, “I’d rather hang out with you than waste my whole night here.”

Prompto grins and nods, hoping to hide what might very well be a blush on his cheeks. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

As they make their way towards the exit, Noctis draws close and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Just this once, Prompto allows himself to lean into the other man’s warmth.


	7. Sixteen

It’s when they’re leaving school, shivering in their jackets as a salvo of wind pummels them at each turn, that Noctis asks the question Prompto has been dreading for the past two years. “I’ve been thinking,” Noctis begins, innocently, as if to comment on his weekend plans. But then he sneaks Prompto a furtive glance, which is Noctis’ sole warning before he lobs him with: “So why don’t we ever go to _your_ place?”

Prompto stares at a fixed point in front of him and prays his discomfort isn’t too visible. “Why would we when your place is way cooler? Besides, I’m not the guy with a personal chef and two walk-in food pantries.” He offers a casual shrug and hopes to leave the matter at that.

But Noctis soldiers onwards, speaking just loudly enough that the gusts do not absorb his words. “I wouldn’t mind visiting you for once. Besides, I’m kind of curious.”

“I dunno, dude. It’s really not that nice of an apartment. And it’s way smaller than yours.” If anything, Prompto thinks he should be downplaying it even more than he is. Noctis lives in the behemoth of apartments, whereas Prompto’s is more like a voretooth that was abandoned by its herd. Despite his reservations, Noctis continues to press the issue, undaunted. In a last-ditch attempt to dissuade him, Prompto finally confesses, “My place is in the Mosses. I’m … guessing you’ve heard of it?”

Noctis stops just short of the parking lot, where they typically wait for Ignis to pick them up. When he speaks, his voice swells with the conviction of one born of royal blood. “Prompto, I’m the prince of this city. Of course I know the name. And I don’t care.”

For a long moment, Prompto is stubbornly unresponsive, as if acting on the hope that being still and silent might miraculously change the prince’s mind. Then, with an audible groan, he says, “Okay, Noct. You win. But I’m telling Iggy this was _your_ idea.”

And that’s exactly what Prompto says—but it does little to steel him for the magnitude of Ignis’ consternation, conveyed to him in a single look. “I see. And His Highness is certain that I not accompany him on this … excursion?”

From the passenger seat, Noctis mutters, “ _His Highness_ thinks you worry too much.”

Ignis opens his mouth, but then he closes it once more, choosing to respond only with a weary sigh. He starts the ignition as an unsettling silence descends upon them. As they drive further from the heart of the city, the majestic, pristine towers gradually give way to smaller, older buildings that seem to shrivel inwards, as if from some unseen consumption. Litter begins to gather atop the sidewalks, first in bits and pieces, and later in collective, reeking piles tossed onto the curb. Passersby behold them in either awe or suspicion—and for once, Prompto regrets being chauffeured in a royally outfitted vehicle.

They slow to a stop before a grey stump of a building, nested in the center of an overgrown lawn. “Allow me to at least escort you to the apartment,” Ignis offers.

Noctis opens his door and swings his feet onto the sidewalk. “The door’s ten feet away. Pretty sure I can handle it.” He then shuts the door without waiting for Ignis’ rebuttal. Prompto lingers in the backseat, his hand resting atop the door handle.

Ignis glances at him through the rearview mirror. “Call me if he requires my assistance.”

“Yeah, well. If it isn’t obvious enough already, my place isn’t exactly the lap of luxury. I get the feeling Noct’ll get bored sooner than he thinks.”

“I rather doubt that,” Ignis says in a lilting tone, as though conveying some private joke. “I think the prince might even enjoy watching the paint dry atop the palace spires, so long as you’re at his side.”

Before Prompto can process the statement, Noctis beckons him outside with a series of taps onto the window nearest to him. Prompto hurriedly scoots himself out of the car and onto the sidewalk. He makes his way past the front door and through the hallway as quickly as he can—lest they encounter one of his fellow tenants. They make a left at the point where the hallway branches, then arrive at a door near the very end of the corridor.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said it was small,” Prompto warns as he slips his key into the lock and opens it with the crank of his wrist. As the door creaks inwards, he reaches along the wall until his fingers find the lightswitch. A second later, the entire room is illuminated from the light of a single bulb.

“Home sweet home,” Prompto says, with just a hint of irony. Noctis steps inside first and observes the room with wandering eyes. For the most part, it’s a space only large enough to contain the bare essentials: a futon in the corner with extra pillows and blankets, a low table with cushions bordering it on each side, a drawer for his clothes, a kitchenette, a small fridge. The spot that Noctis fixates on the longest is the corner next to the bathroom, where Prompto keeps his few camera accessories, as well as the odd gizmos he salvaged from scrapyards. Some pieces are fully refurbished, such as the radio alarm clock that was once dented at its back. Others are cobbled together from the remnants of several different devices, like mechanical monstrosities.

“Sit anywhere, I guess.” Prompto shuts the door behind them before taking a seat on one of the floor cushions. Noctis takes the cushion on the opposite side, eyes sweeping across the room one last time before finally landing back onto him. As usual, his expression is blank; unreadable. “Sooo,” Prompto says. “What d’you wanna do? Not that there’s much we _can_ do here anyway, but...”

Noctis unlatches the clasp of his shoulder bag and slips his hand inside its fold. “I could help you study for that history test tomorrow. You know, the one you haven’t even done the reading for?”

Prompto’s shoulders visibly sag, as if burdened by a physical weight. “Ah, of course. History. Clearly my strongest subject.”

“Clearly.”

They flip through their textbook as Noctis summarizes each passage, each section of Lucian history from memory alone. He speaks of feudal systems and skirmishes amongst villages in Leide; of the opening of the borders and trade routes forged; of council meetings and threats from foreign lands. When they reach the age of King Jarvis and the land resettlements, Prompto is only half-listening. His eyes keep gravitating towards Noctis’ lips, which seem fuller and pinker somehow, as if he were seeing them with renewed vision. Noctis pauses in the middle of a sentence and licks his bottom lip, which only distracts Prompto further. It reminds him of the plump, lipsticked mouths of the girls adorning the magazine in his drawer, with their enticing curves and the inviting softness of their skin.

“-aliens brought Jarvis to their home planet, where he performed a mating ritual with their Queen Mother.”

Prompto blinks. “Wait, wait, _what_?”

Noctis sets the book down onto the table and looks at him with a wry smirk. “Finally. You spaced out for at least a full minute. That bored, huh?”

With an exaggerated groan, Prompto flings himself backwards till he smacks against the floor. “Sorry, Noct, but there’s no way to make this stuff interesting to me.”

“Just be glad you weren’t forced to memorize encyclopedias like I was.” Noctis punctuates the statement with a sigh. Prompto hears a soft thump as Noctis jumps onto his feet, and then shuffles towards the bathroom. “We should probably take a break.” Prompto hums in agreement. Then all is quiet, but only for a moment; Noctis immediately strides back into the main room, his gait louder and bolder than when he left. “What the hell is this?”

Noctis’ voice is a low rumble, coiled anger creeping at its edges. Prompto rolls back into a sitting position, eyes wide with shock. Light still streams in from the opened bathroom door, spilling around the edges of Noctis’ body and into the larger room. Noctis holds his hand out and in his palm rests Prompto’s pocket pistol. Prompto finally gave it a good cleaning the night before and it shows; the silver barrel gleams even in the dim, yellowed light.

“I know that looks bad, but I swear it isn’t,” Prompto says in a panic, blurting the first words that come to mind. “I just have it for, you know … insurance?”

“Insurance,” Noctis repeats, dead-panned.

Prompto takes a deep, slow breath, and then stands so that they’re face-to-face. “Come on, Noct. Obviously, this isn’t exactly the nicest area of town. I got it just in case I ever need it … you know?”

After a slight pause, Noctis lowers himself to the floor and sits, cross-legged, as he gingerly places the gun onto the table. When he next speaks, the words sound strained, as if forced out through clenched teeth. “I just-” he stops abruptly and then starts once more, “I just don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”

There’s a weight to his words that feels far beyond Prompto’s understanding. The best response he can manage is, “I know I don’t look it, but I’m a pretty good shot. I know when to use it and when not to. And on the bright side, I’ve never actually fired it at anyone.” _Though I did come close once_ , Prompto thinks, privately.

In a quieter voice, Noctis says, “Iggy and I can get you a new place. In a safer neighborhood, maybe near-”

“Thanks, Noct, but I’m _pretty_ sure the crown prince isn’t supposed to be paying rent for his friends.” Prompto takes the pistol from the table and places it in its usual spot behind his mattress, right next to the ammo box. He glances back at Noctis, who is deliberately facing away from him. “It’s not like I plan to stick around much longer, anyway. Once someone finally gives me a job, I’ll be outta here in no time. So don’t worry so much. Alright?”

There’s a long, tense silence—and then Noctis nods his head just once, easing Prompto’s nerves enough for him to rejoin him at the table. The rest of the evening is quieter than the hours that preceded it, with the two of them opting to read quietly to themselves. When Ignis returns to retrieve Noctis, he says his goodbyes with little more than a mumbled “see you tomorrow”.

Prompto goes to bed almost immediately afterwards. He switches off the overhead light and flops onto his mattress. As he shrugs under his blanket, he stretches his arm over the edge of the bed and brushes the gun with his fingers, ensuring that it’s within reaching distance. And then finally, he sleeps.


	8. Sixteen pt.II

After discovering the gun in his apartment, Prompto expects Noctis to remain withdrawn and sullen, like a shadow trailing at his heels. Instead, when Prompto arrives at school the following Monday, Noctis conspicuously dumps a small pile of newspaper clippings onto his desk, each one advertising a local part-time job posting. Of them, Prompto applies to a vacancy at an auto repair shop—only to be informed that the owner already filled the position earlier that day. He responds to five more ads over the course of the semester, each one ultimately ending in rejection.

"We just gotta find the right fit for you," Noctis says as he scours the wanted ads section of the paper with a heightening intensity. Eventually, he is so thoroughly engrossed that Prompto is forced to tug his arm each time they scoot forward in line.

Against their better judgment, they decided to celebrate the warm weather by visiting one of the many creperie booths in Bamboo Lane—as did half the city’s student population, thus tripling the usual length of the lines. To their left, a neverending stream of shoppers and tourists shuffle past. The narrow size of the street compresses the crowd into a haphazard row, forcing some to grab onto their friends’ shoulders to keep from being separated. To Prompto, it’s like watching the world’s slowest conga line.

As expected, Noctis attracts the occasional breathless stare. The group of girls directly ahead of them in line say nothing, and instead choose to mark their presence through shy glances and quiet giggling. One of the girls—older than her friends by the looks of it—meets Prompto’s gaze and flashes him a timid smile. He hastily glances away, all too aware of the heat creeping onto his cheeks.

“The Crow’s Nest in the Ten Nine mall is looking for a cashier,” Noctis says, blissfully ignorant of the world around him.

Prompto mulls over the offer before replying, “I dunno, man. Everyone who works for The Crow’s Nest smells … weird. Like french fry grease mixed with old meat.”

“Hm. Good point.”

When they finally reach the end of the line, they both settle for their usual orders. Noctis requests a crepe with vanilla custard and cinnamon apple fillings, whereas Prompto chooses the most decked out item on the menu: a crepe packed with a generous scoop of strawberry ice cream and a thin slice of cheesecake. After collecting their orders, they huddle in a nearby side alley as they eat. Noctis merely nibbles at the edges of his crepe, eyes still skimming the contents of the newspaper. His brow creases in concentration as he leans forward, squinting to make out the paper’s small print. “Hey. There’s something here from an advertising agency. They’re looking for a freelance photographer.”

Prompto halts mid-bite, the tip of the cheesecake already halfway in his mouth. He extends his hand, eyeing the paper with cautious optimism. “Let me see that.” He reads and rereads every line of the short blurb, each word evoking a mixture of hope and trepidation. On paper, it looks almost too good to be true. The pay is enough to double his current monthly allowance, and there’s no minimum age requirement to apply. But when he reaches the last line of the ad, he finally sees the catch—the detail that disqualifies him. “Noct, this says they want a portrait photographer.”

Noctis shrugs. “So?”

“ _So_ I don’t have anything like that in my portfolio. I usually just take wide shots.” His body of work flashes through his mind, like the pages of a flipbook. Candid photos of faraway objects and people, or shots of the sprawling city taken from high, high above. There’s something about the distance that comforts him. Closing that distance—putting the subject directly in front of the camera—feels too intrusive. Too intimate.

Noctis slowly chews his first real bite of the crepe, eyes drawn downwards in thought. Before taking his second bite, he asks, “If all you need is a portrait of someone, can’t you just take mine?”

Prompto gives him a longer, slower look. “I mean … I could. But would you really be cool with that? What if they decide to publish it?”

“So what if they do? It’s not like people don’t already know what I look like.” He nods in the direction of the main street, where passersby continue to gawk and point at them, speaking to one another through cupped hands. Noctis redirects his attention to his crepe, apparently considering the matter resolved.

Reluctantly, Prompto goes to Noctis’ apartment early the next day, camera equipment in tow. When Prompto arrives, he finds a makeshift studio already set up in the far corner of the living room. There’s a white backdrop made from a roll of canvas, as well as a strong overhead light. The biggest surprise is Gladio, who sits on the lone stool positioned in front of the sheet of canvas. When met with his questioning gaze, Gladio says, “I’m only here because Noct begged me to help.”

“I didn’t _beg_ ,” Noctis mutters from his own seat near the kitchen. Ignis chooses that moment to emerge from the bathroom, donning a three-piece suit—silver with white accents.

Gladio scoffs the moment he sees him. “And then there’s this guy. You going to a wedding or something?”

Ignis adjusts the knot in his tie, a perfect picture of dignity and restraint. “I should think it quite logical to present one’s best self to the camera. Besides, if my mother somehow gets ahold of these photos and finds them wanting, then the Gods have mercy on us all.”

Despite the looming threat of motherly wrath, Prompto makes quick work of setting up his tripod and camera. Since Gladio is already seated, they decide to take his portrait first. Unlike Ignis, Gladio is sporting a casual black tanktop and ash-colored jeans. After a moment of hesitation, Prompto brings the camera in as far as it’ll go, till Gladio’s face fills almost the entirety of the frame. After checking the preview, he directs Gladio to look slightly off to the side, towards the left of the lens. Gladio does as requested—then raises the corners of his lips in a way that’s almost frightening, as if caught between a grin and a snarl.

“Um,” Prompto says, biting his bottom lip to keep from laughing. “Can you … not do whatever it is you’re doing with your mouth right now? Just stop. Please.”

He can hear Noctis openly sniggering at his back as Gladio’s face flattens to a scowl. He relaxes eventually, his muscles easing into a softer expression. His scruff is more prominent at this close an angle, as well as the faded scars—all magnified and exposed through the lens of the camera. It feels raw and honest, not highlighting the flaws so much as embracing them. The shutter clicks once, then twice.

Ignis volunteers to go next. Prompto decides to take his photo from further back, framing the shot just wide enough to include his crossed arms. Ignis looks directly into the camera, angling his head so that his glasses do not catch the glare from the overhead light.

“Geez, Iggy,” Prompto says as he takes the picture. “You’re totally a natural at this. Have you modeled before?”

Ignis adjusts his glasses, bringing his hand to his face in a failed attempt to hide his smirk. “No, I have not. Although I’m also not impartial to the idea.”

“What would dear old mother think,” Gladio quips from the kitchen—and then it’s Ignis’ turn to scowl.

Noctis’ portrait is saved for last. The moment he hops onto the stool, he earns a complimentary wolf whistle from Gladio. “Oh, shut up,” Noctis mumbles, his face instantly turning a vibrant shade of scarlet.

It takes a while for the blush to fade, and Prompto is almost tempted to capture the moment on film—if not for the glare Noctis shoots in his direction. When his cheeks regain their normal color, Prompto frames the shot properly. He instinctively knows to keep Noctis’ eyes front and center, and likewise, Noctis instinctively knows to stare directly into the lens. There’s something about his gaze that has always drawn Prompto to him, as inevitably as the tide to the shore. There’s a quiet determination in his stare, and beyond it, an intensity that feels as alluring as it is disquieting. Prompto knows he can’t possibly capture this shapeless, mystical quality on camera—but he tries his best.

Once he’s finished, Prompto finally allows the others to view his work.

“Not bad, kid,” Gladio says of his portrait, nodding his approval.

“Well done,” Ignis says of his own. “I daresay even my ‘dear old mother’ might agree.”

Noctis doesn’t voice his opinion, but his smile says more than enough.

“Thanks, guys,” Prompto says, fighting through the sudden tightness of his throat. With the press of a button, he finally shuts the camera off.


	9. Seventeen

What most surprises Prompto is how quickly time slips past him, each hour, each day falling before his eyes like fine grains through outstretched fingers. Though he only works three nights a week, it feels like a greater disruption, as if his life now pivots on a new axis. His grades are slipping, but even Ignis doesn't criticize him, not when every week he's bursting with stories about all the new camera tricks he's learned and people he's met.

The longer he stays at the agency, the more he notices how the colors of his photos reflect the change in seasons; the gloomy monochrome of last month is now shifting to soft, dreamy pastels. After his latest gig with a local fashion designer, Prompto pops into the office to drop off the prints. He bumps into Pixie on his way inside. Her hair—cut in the same style as her name—is purple today, in comparison to the pink of the previous week. When he speaks to her, his voice seems to jump an entire octave, and he hides his hands in his pockets to conceal the sweatiness of his palms. The pair of them linger in the hallway, conversing in an easy and almost practiced rhythm. After a bit of coaxing, Prompto shows her the prints tucked away in the manila envelope cradled in his arm. Pixie is kind enough to compliment them, even though they both know that her paper and ink illustrations are grander and more inspired than any image Prompto has captured on film.

She takes a step backwards, as if to return to her desk. But instead of a goodbye, she asks Prompto if he would like to accompany her to the movies the following night.

For a moment, Prompto’s heart seems to constrict within his chest, though he’s unsure whether it’s from excitement, anxiety, shock, or a mishmash of all three. Somewhere balled up within his tangled emotions is a sense of unease—of something not quite right. He _does_ like her though, and besides ... he has no reason to refuse.

Pixie beams at his response. They trade phone numbers and agree on a meeting time. The unease doesn’t fully leave him, but it fades somewhat as the day goes on. Until Prompto mentions it to Noctis later that night.

“You have a _date_?” Noctis asks in a confused tone, as if he only vaguely understands the meaning of the word. “With who?”

“With one of the artists at work,” Prompto replies, in a meeker voice than just moments prior. “You know … the one with the changing hair colors?” When Noctis fails to respond, Prompto’s throat tightens until even the simple act of eating feels impossible. There’s an edge to Noctis’ lingering gaze, some hidden pain that Prompto doesn’t want to provoke any further.

Moving to a neighborhood much closer to Noctis encouraged Prompto to spend even less time in his own apartment—but on this night, he feels that visiting might have been a mistake. A sudden stillness fills the room, one thick enough to choke on. At his side, Ignis continues to carry himself with an abnormal amount of composure, his movements careful and slow; he points his eyes downwards and chews his steak for longer than is probably necessary.

Once Prompto gathers his courage, he clears his throat and asks, “You’re ... not _mad_ , right?”

“Of course not,” Noctis responds immediately, but his body goes rigid, his fork suspended halfway between his plate and his mouth. After another drawn out, torturous pause, he adds, “It’s just … you’ve never dated anyone before. Where is this even coming from?”

Prompto shrinks in his seat, unsure of how else to respond. There’s an accusation buried somewhere in his friend’s words—but he lacks the tools to uncover it. Instead, he trudges onwards, as if feeling his way through a sudden darkness. “Of course I haven’t dated before. This is the first time anyone’s ever asked me.”

Noctis clenches and unclenches his hands atop the table, his mouth flattening to a thin line. His eyes fall to his plate. They endure the remainder of their dinner in an unbearable silence.

Prompto only manages to eat half his plate before he decides to make his escape, concocting an excuse about having errands to run before bed. Noctis just nods and murmurs his goodbye. Ignis, on the other hand, offers to walk him to the gate.

The silence carries into the hallway, breaking only once they step into the elevator. Ignis sighs, his shoulders drooping as if relieved of a burdensome weight. “I must say, you two are quite the handful.”

“Sorry,” Prompto mumbles, though he’s not certain why he’s apologizing.

Ignis crosses his arms, his face taking on a more thoughtful expression. He waits until the elevator doors reopen before speaking once more. “As emotionally handicapped as His Highness may seem, his ... feelings often run far deeper than his appearance might suggest. As Noct’s friends, it’s both our gift and our curse to decipher those feelings. To decipher _him_ , as it were.”

By the time he’s finished speaking, they’re already stopped before the gate. Prompto tries to wrap his mind around Ignis’ words, but he feels as though he’s grasping at air instead. “Honestly, Iggy, right now I can’t even decipher _you_ , much less Noct. Can’t you just, like, spell it out for me?”

“Come now. The best advice is the kind that allows you to form your own conclusions.” Ignis’ lips curve into a smile. He pats Prompto on the head once, then twice, as though he were a particularly adored pet. “You’re smarter than you act. I suggest you think on it.” With that, Ignis turns back towards the lobby and waves goodbye, leaving Prompto to stare at his retreating back.

He pushes the gate open, wincing at the unpleasant creaking noise it emits. As he walks home, he tries not to dwell on the conversation during dinner—but each time he shoves the memory away, it retaliates with equal force. He thinks of Noctis’ clipped tone, his guarded expression, the veiled anger embodied in every gesture. If Prompto were to guess a name for that emotion … he would call it jealousy. But jealousy towards whom?

An answer sprouts within his mind, bursting forth like a bud through moistened soil. He attempts to rid himself of the idea as soon as it forms, but it instantly takes root, digging its tendrils deep into his thoughts. It’s a suspicion that inspires feelings of warmth and joy … but also feelings of confusion and doubt. With a frustrated groan, Prompto lolls his head back, stares up at the few stars visible to him, and prays to the Gods for guidance.


	10. Seventeen pt.II

A trip to the beach, it turns out, is the perfect remedy for the rampaging vortex of emotion that otherwise besieges Prompto’s every thought. As he soaks in the waning sunlight and feels the gentle tickle of the breeze, he can almost forget his self-sabotaged date from the night before—or the fact that Noctis barely spoke five words to him the whole afternoon.

For now, Prompto allows his more unpleasant thoughts to sink to the bottom of his mind. He rolls onto his belly and idly smooths out the folded corner of his beach towel as he stares out at the ebbing tide. At the periphery of his vision, he catches sight of Gladio submerged thigh-deep in the water, walking towards the open sea. His skin is moist and catches the light just so; from this distance, the droplets glitter like unspoiled snow. Prompto allows his eyes to wander along the sculpted slope of Gladio’s back, admiring the defined contours of his body—the taut muscle that seems to stretch and contract with his every movement.

A flash of blackness momentarily engulfs his vision as he feels a sudden burst of pain at the side of his head. Prompto lets out a wounded yelp, his hand automatically shooting up to protect his temple from further assault. The offending weapon rolls into view: a volleyball, still new in appearance despite its owner’s mishandling of it.

He glimpses in the direction of the throw and spots Noctis standing at the edge of his own beach towel. “Stare too long and you’ll burn a hole through him.”

Prompto raises himself into a sitting position. He realizes in that moment that this is the first real thing Noctis has said to him since the ill-fated dinner from a couple nights back. He puts on the most natural grin he can muster and replies, “Couldn’t help it. Our friends are just too good looking, man.”

Noctis’ lips twitch into something resembling a smile, but it seems forced, as if masking a deeper emotion. _Or_ , Prompto thinks, _I’m freaking out and reading too much into things_. He hushes his panicked internal monologue as Noctis sits crosslegged onto his towel. The next few moments pass in silence. Prompto stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the point where the water melds with the darkening sky. He draws his knees together and ignores the throbbing ache in his chest, which only seems to worsen in Noctis’ presence. He knows he should say something, anything, but his own nervousness robs him of his words.

“So,” Noctis says, relieving him of the burden of speaking first, “How did it go?”

Though the question is vaguely stated, Prompto instantly understands its true meaning—it’s the question he’s anticipated all afternoon. He thinks back to the previous night: meeting Pixie at the movies, sharing a large tub of buttered popcorn, and riffing on the latest entry of the much-derided Night of the Axe Murderer franchise. It wasn’t a bad time, all things considered. There was even a moment when the pair of them were shushed for laughing a little too loudly during the movie. Yet for all the fun he seemed to have, thoughts of something—or rather _someone_ else—crowded his mind, till his every action seemed to elicit a prickle of guilt from somewhere deep within. At one point during the movie, Pixie’s fingers crept towards his. He withdrew his hand from the armrest, subtly enough so as not to cause her embarrassment. Her own hand retreated to her lap, and she retained a respectful distance from him for the remainder of the night.

“It was okay,” Prompto says, settling for a half-truth. “I dunno. She’s super nice and all, but I guess she’s not really my type.”

There’s an awkward, unnatural pause. Prompto wonders if Noctis is studying his words the same way he now studies his, examining and reexamining each statement for hidden meanings or sentiments left unsaid. “Oh,” Noctis finally says, before succumbing to another long silence.

Prompto feels a palpable relief upon hearing Ignis call out to them both. They glance in his direction and see that he's finished setting up the grill further out from the shoreline, at one of the many cast stone fire pits lining the beach. Gladio also hears the call and trudges back onto the sand. All three of them assist Ignis in unpacking the meats from the cooler, where each cut is carefully wrapped in a sheet of wax paper. They decide to first grill the fish Noctis caught earlier that afternoon: a ten pound barramundi that struggled hard enough to cause blisters to form on Noctis' palms.

Once the fish is chargrilled then subsequently reduced to a heap of tiny bones, they steadily make their way through their supply of brisket and chickatrice legs. As they eat, the sun gradually dips past the horizon. Little by little, the other beach visitors pack up their belongings and flee from the encroaching darkness; even within the safety of the city walls, the people harbor a lingering fear of the night.

When they finally deplete their food supply, the four of them huddle around the dwindling fire. Ignis begins collecting their trash in a large plastic bag, and the moment there’s a lull in the conversation, he asks, “Gladio, could you assist me in throwing this out?”

At first, Gladio simply cocks his brow in apparent confusion. Ignis counters with a pointed stare—and then Gladio’s eyes widen, presumably from some unspoken realization. “Oh,” he finally says. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

As if to make their intent even more obvious, they both conspicuously gather their belongings before leaving. As Ignis passes Prompto, he pats him on the shoulder and whispers, “Good luck.” They then trudge in the general direction of Noctis’ apartment, venturing farther and farther from their small circle of light until they’re nothing but shadows amongst shadows.

And then they’re alone. Prompto watches the flames flicker and crackle in the increasingly chilly wind, a nervous tightness creeping back into his chest. He wonders what, exactly, Ignis expects of him—of _them_. Probably some sort of resolution, at the very least.

Prompto clears his throat. “So, about the other night,” he begins, the surrounding silence only amplifying the sound of his voice, “I just wanted to say sorry. You know … for upsetting you.” He summons the courage to look Noctis in the face, who is now staring back at him with wide-eyed, incredulous expression.

“Why are _you_ apologizing when I’m the one who-” Noctis suddenly stops, swallowing the rest of his sentence. He takes a deep, slow breath, his eyes trailing sideways in thought—when their gazes meet once more, Noctis sits a little taller, his voice steely with conviction. “You don’t have to apologize for upsetting me. Or anyone else. You have the right to do whatever you want, even if other people don’t agree.”

Something about the words makes Prompto’s throat tighten. His next question comes out strained, like the discordant notes of a rusty instrument. “Even if _you_ don’t agree?”

“Yeah,” Noctis replies, without a hint of hesitation. “Even me.” He turns slightly away from him and stares into the glowing embers, which wax and wane like a fiery pulse. “There might be times when I get angry or start acting weird for no reason. When that happens … just ignore me. I’ll get over it after a few days.”

Though there’s no change in Noctis’ expression nor in his tone, Prompto knows the other man well enough to catch the subtler signs: the barely perceptible moisture gathering in his eyes, and beyond that, the smothered pain made visible only through the slight creasing of his brow. Prompto fights the sudden stinging of his own eyes—and before he fully realizes it, a wry chuckle bubbles up from his lips.

The shock is enough to draw Noctis’ gaze from the fire. Prompto smiles and hopes it conveys all the warmth he feels in that moment. “Sorry Noct, but no can do. Like it or not ... I don’t think I _can_ ignore you, even if I wanted to. So,” he pauses, his smile widening, “Guess you’re stuck with me, pal.”

As is often the case with Noctis, his reaction isn’t quite what Prompto expects. A smile slowly spreads across his mouth, first lifting one corner and then the other. In a voice devoid of irony, he replies, “Damn. I guess I am.”

Prompto blinks. Then he laughs, hard enough to cause him to bow forward and clutch at his belly, tears straining at the corners of his eyes. “Jerk,” he says, once his laughter calms. They fall into silence once more, this one gentler and calmer than the silences that preceded it. Prompto glances over at Noctis, who stares back at him with an expression he can’t quite grasp. There’s a softness there, a warmth that surpasses even the orange glow reflected in his eyes. A certain emotion blossoms in Prompto’s chest, one that he lacks the vocabulary to express, as if it’s written in a language he doesn’t fully understand. Then again, Prompto reminds himself, there are emotions that are better conveyed through actions than words.

He scoots closer to Noctis—and then closer still. When their arms brush, Noctis looks at him with eyes that seem to grow wider and wider with every passing second. A look of confusion flashes across Noctis’ face, and Prompto hesitates, a mixture of fear and doubt halting his advance. But then the confusion melts into something more akin to curiosity.

Prompto thinks back to all the conversations, all the little moments building up to this singular point in time. He’s come a long way from the mousy kid who only watched the prince from afar. What was the point of all that work, all that progress, if not to go all in at the exact moment when it matters most? With renewed resolve, he takes a deep, shuddering breath—and then closes the gap between them.

The first thought that flits through his mind is how Noctis’ lips really do feel as soft as they look. As fleeting as the touch is, he marvels at the sensation of it: the heat radiating from his skin, the inviting smoothness of his lips. He draws back almost instantly, his heartbeat pounding with a loudness that eclipses the crashing of the waves. “Sorry,” he blurts out, conscious of the blood now rushing to his face. “I just...” He trails off, unsure of how to end his sentence. After all, what can he possibly say? ‘ _I just feel like making out with you, hope you’re cool with that_ ’?

Prompto nearly jerks in surprise upon feeling a feather light touch atop his hand. He first glances downwards, at their now intertwined fingers, and then up at Noctis’ face—which is much closer than he anticipated, so close that he can feel the other man’s breaths against his cheek. He’s wearing that familiar, mysterious look—the one that can make Prompto freeze faster than a blast of cold wind—and before he can even begin to process what’s happening, Noctis leans towards him. This kiss lasts much longer than their initial brushing of lips; now, Prompto tastes the salt on Noctis’ tongue, feels the fingers at the back of his neck, thumbing the short hairs at its base, and hears the clicking of their teeth as they attempt to touch more and more of each other with a rising desperation.

When they finally part, Prompto’s breaths rattle through his throat, his lips moist with saliva. An unexpected calm settles over him, though whether it stems from shock or stunned acceptance, Prompto isn’t quite sure. He glances up at Noctis, who is warily scanning the area, as if only just regaining awareness of their very public surroundings. Though no one else appears to be in their immediate vicinity, it is too dark to tell for certain. Noctis stands, brushes the sand from his legs, and offers his hand to Prompto. “Come with me.”

Noctis leads him into the woods bordering the beach, purposefully straying from the paved walkways and dirt paths. Instead, they venture across rougher terrain, skipping over withered logs and fallen branches before finally settling within the walls of a particularly dense thicket. Noctis leans his back against the tree with the thickest trunk and pulls Prompto towards his chest. For a long moment, Prompto’s hands hover awkwardly in the air as he wonders where, exactly, he should place them. Mercifully, Noctis links their fingers together and guides his hands onto his hips. They kiss once more, shyly at first, as if becoming reacquainted with one another. To Prompto, it does feel like a discovery of sorts; his fingers trace the peaks and valleys of Noctis’ waist and back, the skin he’s seen countless times but never touched until this moment.

When Prompto manages to elicit a whimper from Noctis with a particularly emphatic kiss at the base of his throat, he recoils in alarm. “Are you okay?”

Now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, Prompto sees the amused smile that curves across Noctis’ mouth. “Yeah. Don’t worry. That’s not a sound I make when I’m in pain.”

Prompto smiles in return. He leans in for another kiss—but pauses upon feeling a distinct hardness pressed against his thigh. He glances downwards and spots a noticeable bulge straining against the front of Noctis’ black swimming trunks. “Oh,” he says, and then, “ _Oh_.”

Noctis pointedly turns his face away, coyly shrinking from his gaze. “You … you don’t have to-” he says, but before he can finish his statement, Prompto acts on a sudden and overwhelming impulse to rub his leg against the erection. Noctis’ breath hitches in his throat; his entire body tenses.

Prompto takes a small step back, instantly regretting his bold gesture. “Sorry! We should just stop here, right? It’s getting kinda late any-” He cuts himself off with a surprised yelp when Noctis grabs onto his wrists with surprising force.

“You can’t … do _that_ and then say you’re gonna stop. Just,” Noctis squeezes his wrists even tighter, almost enough to bruise, “Just keep going.”

“O-okay,” Prompto says with an uncertain nod, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Keep going. Right.” What follows are a few of the clumsiest and most awkward minutes of his life. At first, he tries to palm Noctis through the fabric of his trunks ... but there isn’t enough friction, and soon Noctis is bucking against his hand with an almost violent impatience. Finally, Prompto relents. He begins to slip his fingers beneath the elastic band at his hips, but he pauses to shyly ask, “Is it okay if I…?”

Noctis nods, feverishly. “Yes, gods, just do it already.”

It takes just one small tug for his cock to pop up from beneath the waistband, the head already slick with smeared precum. Prompto gingerly curls his fingers just beneath the head, which seems to twitch and throb at even the slightest stimulation—and his brain momentarily shortcircuits upon realizing that he is, in fact, clutching at his friend’s dick.

Noctis rolls his hips forward, hoisting Prompto back to reality. Despite the urgency radiating from Noctis’ every shuddering breath, Prompto starts at a slow, tentative pace. He feels a bit like the fish Noctis caught earlier that day, flopping helplessly on unfamiliar terrain. His only frame of reference is what he does when he’s pleasuring himself, and so he strokes Noctis at a similar rhythm, squeezing and twisting his hand at just the right angle each time his fingers slide up his shaft.

Prompto feels the puff of warm air against his neck, which seem to grow heavier and more erratic with their every movement, and then Noctis’ fingers begin digging into his shoulders with such strength that Prompto can feel his nails biting into his skin. The only warning Prompto gets is an abrupt clenching of muscle before Noctis cums with a low, drawn-out moan. Most of the cum sprays onto Prompto’s hand, though some of it sputters onto his stomach.

When it’s over, Noctis sags against the tree trunk. But before he’s even recovered his breath, he gently pries Prompto’s hand away from his now limp cock and then paws at Prompto’s own waistband—until Prompto stops him. Blushing worse than ever, he explains, “Sorry, but I was, um, too nervous to get mine up … if you know what I mean.”

For a moment, Noctis just stares at him. Then he laughs, hard enough the his shoulders shake from the force of it—but it’s a laugh that contains far more fondness than ridicule. Prompto smiles and rests his forehead against the bend of Noctis’ shoulder. “Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “I know.”

When they return to the beach, they wash themselves off in the seawater, which has grown cold in the absence of the sun. With their fire long burnt out, they stumble through the dark till they locate their abandoned cooler and towels. They shake the towels free of sand and then pile them into the cooler, which Noctis volunteers to carry.

Their return walk to the apartment mostly passes in silence. Prompto can sense the adrenaline and shock gradually seeping out him, leaving a mental fogginess in its wake. By the time they arrive at the front gate, he feels almost lightheaded, as if he could float away at the slightest breeze.

Noctis stops before the gate and turns towards him. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, as if the words are trapped within him.

“So,” Prompto says, when the silence stretches for an uncomfortable length of time. “What do we do from here?”

Noctis stares him directly in the eye—and to Prompto, it feels like the first time he’s ever seen the prince look so uncertain about anything. “I don’t know,” he admits, in an even quieter voice than usual.

“Then,” Prompto replies, putting on what he hopes is an encouraging smile, “I guess we’ll just have to figure it out together, yeah? One day at a time.”

“Yeah,” Noctis says with a nod. “I guess so.” After a slight hesitation, he murmurs, “Good night, Prompto.” Then he turns away and slips past the unlocked gate.

Prompto watches him stride down the pathway and disappear beyond the front doors. In his head is a confused tangle of emotions … which he resolves to sort through some other day. For now, he’ll focus only on the pleasant tingling in his chest and his memories of Noctis’ soft skin, yielding beneath his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple notes:
> 
>   * This took a couple days longer than usual to post, but I hope the ... content makes up for the tardiness. :3
>   * Completely unrelated to this fic, but I'm starting a blog about diversity/inclusiveness in video games & movies. I created [a survey](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/B3QKKFM) to help inform the blog's content, and I'd greatly appreciate if anyone reading this is willing to fill it out. Thanks in advance to anyone who does! :')
> 

> 
> Anyway. See you all in the next chapter... :D


	11. Eighteen

For the most part, the changes reveal themselves in the small things: fleeting, casual touches on the back or hip, stolen glances and smiles, words murmured directly into the other’s ear. The weeks slip into months, each day floating by in a gentle haze. If Ignis and Gladio notice anything—and Prompto is certain they do—they choose not to acknowledge it.

That is, until the night before the winter solstice, when Gladio finally breaks his vow of silence. “So,” Gladio says between sips of freshly brewed coffee, “Are you two gonna start acting like a real couple anytime soon? Or is the plan to keep blushing at each other like preteens?”

Prompto somehow manages to choke on water, coughing so hard that it almost sounds like retching. He’s suddenly _very_ grateful that Noctis is at the palace instead of lounging around the apartment with the three of them.

From across the table, Ignis bows his head and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Gladio,” he warns.

“What?” Gladio says with an easy shrug. “Under all that politeness, I bet even _you’re_ fed up with these two by now.”

“Not particularly,” Ignis replies, and regardless of whether it’s true, he sells it well. “How they choose to conduct their relationship is no business of mine.”

Prompto eventually regains his voice. He looks at Gladio, pleading with his eyes. “Can we please talk about something else? Like, literally anything other than this.”

Gladio frowns. “You’ve gotta deal with it at some point,” he says, but doesn’t push the issue any further. With a single mention of a local ramen shop, Ignis manages to expertly maneuver the conversation into safer waters. But Gladio’s words linger in Prompto’s mind, even long after Noctis returns, takes the seat next to his, and entwines their hands beneath the table.

Prompto spends the entirety of his night formulating a plan, which he initiates the moment he ambushes Noctis in their school hallway the following morning. “Do you wanna go out tonight?” he asks, a little too quickly.

“Good morning to you too,” Noctis replies, a smile already forming on his lips. “And go where? It’s freezing outside.”

“Which is actually perfect for once, since ice skating starts tonight!” He doesn’t specify where, but it’s common knowledge to most everyone in the city; after all, it’s the one week in the year that the entirety of Leviathan trail is converted to one long, winding ice rink.

Noctis’ smile falters, ever so slightly. “Ice skating? Do you know how?”

“Not really,” Prompto admits. He could never afford such luxuries as a child—though he spent plenty of time outside the rink, watching the happy couples and families glide in graceful arcs or dizzying spirals. Feeling a sudden heaviness in his chest, he pushes the memory aside and asks, “How about you?”

“Never learned. Not like there’s an ice rink at the palace, anyway.” Prompto’s shoulders slump in disappointment at his reply, causing Noctis to quickly add, “But if you really wanna go, then I guess I’ll go too.”

Prompto instantly brightens, deciding to interpret his noncommittal answer as an enthusiastic “yes.” After school, the two of them forego the usual trip to Noctis’ apartment and head directly to Leviathan trail, which is conveniently located the next district over.

They arrive after a short walk. A line snakes out from the entrance and hugs the outer wall, but it moves quickly, and within minutes, they receive their rented skates. Prompto always assumed the blades would be difficult to stand on, but upon lacing his skates, he finds that he balances atop them easily. He shuffles towards the opening of the ice rink, Noctis trailing a short distance behind him.

Prompto tentatively steps onto the ice, holding his breath in anticipation. To his surprise, the floor feels even more slippery than the patches of ice that sometimes form on sidewalks; the longer he stares, the more the ice shimmers in the light, as if coated in gloss. He can feel the scratches that mar the surface, causing his blades to wobble on occasion. Cautiously, he pushes one foot forward and then the other, resisting the urge to cling onto the railings lining the walls. At one point, he throws his balance and nearly falls backwards—at the last moment, he shifts his weight and barely manages to stay upright.

A pair of children cut in front of him, fearlessly whizzing past. They laugh as they round the nearest bend and disappear behind a curved wall. Prompto takes a deep breath, his chest swelling with a nervous excitement. _Here goes nothing_ , he thinks, shedding the last of his reservations as he dashes forward with a burst of speed. There are moments when he’s certain he’ll fall, but he charges onwards, accelerating with every step. Soon, he’s gliding so quickly that when he reaches the nearest wall, he thrusts his palms outward to keep from smacking into it.

A relieved laugh bubbles from his lips. Using the railing for support, he spins around, expecting to see Noctis somewhere close by. Instead, Prompto spots him tiptoeing near the entrance, with all the finesse of a baby taking its first steps. Even from a distance, Prompto can see the wary expression on Noctis’ face, as if he expects the floor to crack open and swallow him whole.

Prompto makes his way back towards him, muffling his laughter with his fist. When he nears, Noctis finally tips over, falling to his rear with an “oomph!” As he glides to a stop, Noctis shyly glances up, his scarf partially shielding his reddened cheeks. ”It’s not as easy as you’re making it seem.”

“Nah,” Prompto says with a grin. “You probably just need to _chill_ out. If you relax, you won’t _freeze_ up so much.”

Noctis gives him a withering look.

“Really? Not even a smile? Ouch.” Prompto offers his hand, which Noctis eventually accepts. After hoisting him to his feet, Prompto clasps both of Noctis’ hands in his and skates backwards, guiding him across the ice. Despite Prompto’s assistance, Noctis falls more than a few times—and afterwards, Prompto always helps him back onto his feet. They begin to attract stares from passersby, possibly from those who recognize their prince … or possibly because they’re two grown men clinging onto each other like children. But Prompto barely takes notice, as he tunes out the surrounding chatter till it’s little more than a low hum.

They almost make it across the trail’s first curve when Noctis suffers his worst wipeout yet, clutching Prompto’s forearms in a vice-like grip and sending the both of them tumbling to the floor in a tangled heap. Prompto’s knees hurt from the impact, but still he laughs against Noctis’ chest. When he tries to stand, Noctis grabs his forearms once more and pulls him back down. Even without looking, Prompto can sense the curious gazes of those around them—but he no longer cares.

“I hate this,” Noctis groans, but the smile on his lips contradicts his words.

“Sure you do,” Prompto replies with a knowing smirk, before leaning forward to steal a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seriously took me like five minutes to come up with those puns. I'm trying ok. ;-;


	12. Eighteen pt.II

Prompto still remembers when he first asked Noctis about the palace, not long after he first worked up the nerve to speak to him. At the time, Noctis merely shrugged and said, “The palace isn’t as amazing as everyone thinks. It just has old people and even older paintings.”

“Well, one of those ‘old people’ is the King,” Prompto replied with a teasing grin. “So excuse us normals for being amazed.”

“Believe me, you won’t feel that way when you actually meet him.” At that, Noctis’ mouth twitched into a mysterious smile.

Prompto puzzled at his friend’s prophetic use of the word ‘when’—after all, why would Noctis ever expect for someone like Prompto to meet the King? Commoners weren’t even allowed into the front courtyard, much less the private audience chambers.

But now, as the palace’s imposing iron gate parts before Prompto’s very eyes, he can feel the memory changing shape in his mind, transforming from a merely odd remark into an impossible premonition. At his side stands Noctis, who sends him a reassuring smile. “It’s just lunch,” Noctis reminds him, though it does nothing to loosen the knot of anxiety in Prompto’s chest. “And we can leave right afterwards.”

“Yeah, if your dad doesn’t throw me into a dungeon first,” Prompto says, his nervousness getting the better of him.

“Relax. We don’t even have a dungeon.”

To Prompto’s surprise, the palace is mostly empty. Aside from the guards—who are positioned along the walls of the entrance hall, standing as stiff and lifeless as potted plants—there is only the occasional harried servant, who each emerge from one of the many doors dotting the long passageway, only to disappear behind another. As Noctis leads him through a maze of corridors and vacant salons, Prompto marvels at the decor: intricate domed ceilings hand-carved from stone, upholstery draped in bold patterns and textures, paintings that are undoubtedly ancient in age yet appear as vibrant as fresh brushstrokes on canvas.

Finally, they arrive in a (comparatively) modest banquet room housing a single long table at its center. The chairs at both ends of the table are unoccupied, but Noctis still slumps into the seat positioned in the far right corner. Reluctantly, Prompto takes the seat directly across from him.

Then they wait. And wait. And wait.

Prompto clears his throat. “So … is your dad always fashionably late?”

“Most of the time, yeah. He’s probably getting held up at a council meeting.” Noctis tops the comment off with a half-hearted shrug and then crosses his arms, a perfect picture of disinterest.

Prompto’s whole body sags forward, his forehead hitting the edge of the table with a dull thunk. “How are you not freaking out? I mean, what if he doesn’t like me?”

Noctis’ lips curve into yet another of his incomprehensibly confident smiles. “He’ll like you, Prompto. Trust me.” After a thoughtful pause, he adds, “Besides, he’s probably ... different from what you expect.”

“Different how?” Prompto asks, but before Noctis gets the opportunity to answer, the sound of a heavy door swinging open interrupts their conversation. They hear the King before they see him—the moment the door opens, the staccato clicks of the king’s walking cane echo throughout the room. Prompto instantly jumps to his feet in a panic.

The first thing Prompto notes is that the King looks older in person than he does in print. The creases bordering his eyes are definitely more prominent up close, but it’s the shrewdness of his gaze that truly ages him. On his shoulders rests a thick black cloth, which trails at his back like a flickering shadow.

There is a man who follows the King inside, and though it is their first time meeting, Prompto identifies him with a single glance. When their eyes meet, the man’s lips seem to twitch upwards of their own accord. _So that’s where Gladio gets his terrifying smile_ , Prompto thinks with a nervous gulp.

The King mercifully dismisses his Shield the moment he takes his seat at the table. As Prompto scoots into his own seat, Ignis’ instructions replay in his mind for what must be the dozenth time that afternoon. _“Don’t begin eating until His Majesty takes his first bite. Don’t speak unless spoken to. And for heaven’s sake, calm down. We’re not sending you to the gallows.”_

Two servants enter with serving trays, which they uncover as they set the dishes before the King. Gradually, their table fills with enough food to stuff Prompto’s stomach for days: plates of garlic roasted behemoth tenderloin, pickled vegetables and eggs on rice, sea bass fillets poached in garlic sauce, and a stack of green tea cakes for dessert. Prompto squirms in his seat as he waits for the King to take a bite of behemoth meat—then he lunges at the food like a starved beast.

For the first few minutes, the only sounds that pass between the three of them are the clinks of silver utensils against fine china. It’s only when Prompto tries for a second helping of fish that the King clears his throat and asks, “It’s Prompto, yes?” Prompto nods a little too enthusiastically, causing the corners of the King’s eyes to crinkle with mirth. “I must thank you for enduring my son’s companionship for as long as you have. No one other than Gladiolus and Ignis have lasted this long—and those two are paid to like him. It’s quite worrisome.”

For a long while, Prompto simply stares at the King, uncertain of how to react. Then from across the table, he hears Noctis mutter, “He’s joking.” With an exaggerated sigh, he adds, “This is what I’ve had to deal with for eighteen years.”

“It is the primary responsibility of the parent to mercilessly tease their child. This is written in Lucian law.” The King accompanies this statement with a solemn nod—and it’s enough to finally wrest an appreciative laugh from Prompto’s lips.

The King smiles in return, seemingly emboldened by his reaction. “My son speaks of you often, to the extent that I feel as though I am already well-acquainted with you. Since we are finally meeting, I think it’s only fair that I now give _you_ the opportunity to speak freely about my son.”

“Dad-” Noctis protests, his voice stricken with alarm, but the King continues with his request, as though deaf to his son’s complaints.

“How would you describe Noctis, in your own words? Please answer with complete and total honesty. After all, the most painless execution is one that’s swift.” He flashes a smile at Noctis, who now has his face buried in his hands.

Prompto sets his utensils down onto his plate, eyes shyly darting between Noctis and the King, who eagerly awaits his answer. “Honestly?” he begins, carefully formulating his next words. “Noctis is the most generous person I’ve ever met. He’s been unbelievably nice to me since day one, and I have no clue why. As for faults … well, he can be moody at times, and he doesn’t always say what he really feels. But he’s always honest when it counts most.” Prompto swallows past the sudden tightness of his throat. He forces a grin as he concludes with, “So basically, he’s just okay. I give him a B minus.”

Prompto and the King both dissolve into a fit of laughter as Noctis shrinks in his seat, his face taking on a distinct shade of pink. “I should’ve known this would happen,” Noctis mutters pitifully before shoving a chunk of behemoth meat into his mouth.

Once their laughter finally settles, the King goads them into resuming their meal. When the King next speaks, it’s to comment on the tea cakes that Prompto heaps onto his plate. “Be careful with those,” he says, his tone grave. “They might turn your tongue green.”

Prompto balks and turns towards the King with wide eyes. “Like … permanently?”

The King pauses for a long while, his eyes drawn downwards in thought. “Possibly,” he eventually answers. “If you eat too many of them.”

Prompto unceremoniously dumps the cakes back onto the serving tray.

Noctis sighs. “Dad. Just stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a trickster, that King! This is why Noctis spends so much of his free time alone in the royal fishing pond. At least the fish won't tease him. DD:


	13. Eighteen pt.III

After his graduation, Prompto expects to feel … different. More mature, maybe, as if adulthood could be bestowed upon him as easily as his diploma. Instead, the first thing he does after the ceremony is loiter around the imperial gardens with his friends, munching on riceballs that Ignis fashioned into the shape of baby chocobos.

“ _Kweh, kweh, please don’t eat me!_ ” Prompto says in a faux high-pitched voice, right before popping another riceball into his mouth. “Sorry, little guy. I’m just too hungry.”

Noctis refuses to even touch them. “Eating them just feels … wrong.” He eyes their squat little forms with something akin to pity.

“Wanna get ice cream instead?” Prompto offers. He directs a longing gaze towards a huddled group of children, all of whom are clutching half-melted sea salt ice cream pops.

But Gladio, it seems, has other plans. “No way. Enough of this baby stuff.” He reaches into their picnic basket and pulls out two glass bottles, each one the size of a flask. The liquid inside is so transparent that the bottles would appear empty if not for the visible swishing at the top.

“What is that?” Prompto asks as Gladio sets the bottles down at the center of the group’s shared blanket.

“Crystal wine,” Ignis answers with a note of distaste. “It’s what water would be, if it were attempting to kill you.”

Noctis crinkles his nose. “That stuff tastes like gasoline.”

“What, you guzzle gasoline in your free time?” Gladio asks with a smirk, causing Noctis to huff and cross his arms in response. Gladio grabs a bottle and unscrews the cap before shoving it against Prompto’s chest. “Looks like you’re the lucky winner, Prom. You get the first gulp.”

Reluctantly, Prompto accepts the opened bottle. He cautiously sniffs the contents—and immediately draws back in disgust. “Gross! Is this the right bottle? _That_ doesn’t smell like something a person is supposed to drink.”

“Well, I doubt this stuff is good for your health. But that hasn’t stopped me.” Gladio pauses to tip the bottle back in the direction of Prompto’s tight-lipped mouth. “And it’s not gonna stop you either.”’

Prompto grimaces as he peers down the narrow opening and watches the noxious liquid splash around the inside of the container. Then he pinches his nose and takes a generous sip. The alcohol burns a trail down his throat, and despite his attempts to block the smell, its acrid fumes invade his mouth and nostrils like smoke through pipes. He immediately lunges at the riceballs and shoves one into his mouth, though it does little to disguise the taste.

Noctis gently pries the bottle from his fingers, gazing at Prompto with raised brows. “Are you okay? You look like you’re dying.”

“I’m fine,” Prompto replies with pitiful sniffle. “Just … bury me someplace sunny.”

Noctis is the next to drink, and his reaction is only mildly better than Prompto’s. They pass the bottle around the circle, nibbling on riceballs and grilled squid to offset the flavor of the wine. It takes several rounds between the four of them to empty a bottle, and with each gulp, Prompto finds the alcohol slightly more tolerable. After finishing the first bottle, Prompto is woozy and giggles whenever Ignis says anything. (“I fail to see the humor in mentioning my mother’s pollen allergy.” Ignis frowns when the statement only sends Prompto into yet another giggling fit.) After the second bottle, Prompto is red-faced and sprawled across Noctis’ lap.

At dusk’s approach, the lanterns along the garden’s cobblestone pathways flicker on one-by-one, with a burst of orange light. “Guess that’s our cue to head back,” Gladio says as the last sliver of sunlight dips below the horizon.

“Aww,” Prompto whines, clutching onto the front of Noctis’ shirt for emphasis. “But it’s so _early_.”

Noctis brushes a matted lock of hair from Prompto’s forehead, his lips twitching into an indulgent smile. “You two go on ahead. I can stay here with him.”

Ignis adjusts his glasses, his every movement radiating skepticism. “That may not be wise, considering Prompto’s … present state.” He sends a pointed glance towards Prompto, who pokes his tongue out in response and then curls into a ball.

“Nah,” Gladio says with a smirk. “Probably better to let him loose than try and contain him. Call us if he gets himself into trouble.”

As Gladio and Ignis make their exit, Prompto mutters a complaint about how mean and mistrusting the two of them are. He allows his eyes to flutter shut and listens as the sound of their footfalls grows quieter and quieter. When he next opens his eyes, he sees Noctis staring down at him, an affectionate smile curving his lips. Only then does Prompto notice the hand petting his hair, combing through the strands at a soothing rhythm. He narrows his eyes in feigned annoyance. “Stop lookin’ at me funny.” Prompto then lays a hand atop Noctis’ face, where it lands with a dull slap.

Noctis’ fingers circle Prompto's wrist as he gently pulls his hand from his face. He leans forward, as if to plant a kiss on Prompto’s palm, but suddenly stops when his fingers graze his bracelets. A familiar, thoughtful expression flashes across his face. He thumbs the silver studs lining the thin strips of leather, and even through his inebriated haze, Prompto reflexively tenses.

“You know,” Noctis says, carefully, as if not to scare him away, “I’ve noticed that you never take these off. Not even when we’re...” He shyly trails off, and Prompto mentally fills in the blanks.

Prompto shifts uncomfortably within Noctis’ lap. Eventually, an answer spills out of him, unbidden. “I don’t like seeing the thing under the bracelets. You won’t like it either. It looks-” He scrunches his brow as he tries to think of the word. After a pause, he settles on, “-not good.”

Noctis’ thumb continues to slide over the studs. With a smile, he replies, “Try me. It can’t be that bad.” His smile widens as he adds, “Besides, I’ve already seen your bare ass. So I may as well see everything else, right?”

Prompto lets out an indignant squawk. He uses his free hand to push at Noctis’ shoulder, a gesture that elicits a soft laugh—but Noctis continues to cradle his wrist, gently and with a quiet persistence. He stares up into Noctis’ eyes, which gaze back down at him with a warmth and patience that melts his worries away, like softened butter. With a shaky breath, Prompto unclasps the buckles of his bracelets, working his way from the bottom-up, one after the other. Then, finally, he tears them all off in a single tug.

The skin beneath the bracelets is noticeably paler than the rest of his arm. Prompto turns his wrist over, revealing the black barcode etched into his flesh. “Creepy, huh?” Prompto says, forcing out a chuckle. “I dunno how I got it, but I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. I might’ve been born with it.”

Noctis brushes over the mark with the pads of his fingers, tracing the peaks and valleys of the raised flesh. Then, before Prompto can fully process what he’s doing, Noctis lifts the newly-exposed skin to his lips and kisses it.

Prompto’s breath stalls in his chest. It lasts only a moment—and then Noctis lowers his wrist once more. Wordlessly, the both of them refasten the bracelets onto his arm, as Prompto fights the sudden stinging at the corners of his eyes.

After that day, Prompto continues to wear the bracelets. But sometimes, when it’s just the two of them, he allows Noctis to slip them off ... and then Prompto closes his eyes till he feels the comforting press of lips against marred skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a big thank you for all the support I've received for this fic! I don't always reply to all the comments, but I appreciate every one I receive. <3
> 
> Secondly, it'll take a few days longer than usual for me to post the next chapter, as I want to (finally) update my other Promptis fic before continuing with this one. Apologies in advance for the delay!


	14. Nineteen

In retrospect, Prompto wonders if he should have seen it coming. Surely there were hints—warning signs that he ignored or misinterpreted. Maybe somewhere in his memories is a decisive clue, the hidden answer to a riddle that he didn’t think to solve.

He thinks back to the past few months, most of which he spent either immersed in his freelance work or immersed in Noctis. The more he mulls it over, the more Prompto realizes with a slow, seeping clarity that there were some things he could’ve done better. Like, maybe he should’ve been more curious about the increasing frequency of Noctis’ visits to the palace. Or maybe he should’ve thought to question the fleeting sadness that flickered across Noctis’ face when Prompto first confessed his love to him.

They make a sharp turn at the end of a narrow passageway, causing Prompto to nearly trip over a bump in the carpet. Sensing his halted movement through their linked hands, Noctis glances back towards him before tugging him down yet another of the palace’s countless hallways.

Without fail, each guardsman or servant they pass wears the same look of stifled curiosity, their strangely intense gazes trained onto the floor. Considering his own mounting interest, it’s a feeling that Prompto is increasingly sympathetic to. Earlier that day, Noctis lured him to the palace with a text that simply read: _Can you meet me in front of the palace gate at noon? There’s something I want to show you._

To which Prompto responded: _Is this a date??_ (づ￣ ³￣)づ

But Noctis barely spoke a word to him since then, opting to drag him around the palace in silence. When they cross what feels like the dozenth threshold, Prompto finally blurts out the question that he had been withholding since his arrival. “Can’t you give me a teeny, tiny hint? The suspense is killing me here.”

Noctis turns to him, his lips finally lifting in a smile. “Sorry. It’s just a little bit further.” Prompto notices then that his voice has a strained, raspy quality to it, similar to when he has a chest cold … or when he’s nervous.

They make another turn before reaching a stone archway that frames a pair of bronze doors, each one adorned with an engraving of Shiva amidst an ice storm. Mounted atop the peak of the arch is a statue of Bahamut, carved from obsidian. Prompto gazes up at the statue as Noctis heaves the doors open, sensing a growing unease in the pit of his stomach.

Beyond the doors is a small chapel. A crystal chandelier hangs above the center aisle, which is carpeted in black velvet. A row of pews—each one the deep, earthy brown of Tenebraen oak—border both sides of the room. At the front of the room is a raised platform that sits before a multi-paneled stained glass window depicting the Six, the whole of it large enough to eclipse the entire back wall.

Noctis stops just before the platform, at the spot where the black carpet gives way to the white marble flooring beneath it. Then he turns towards Prompto, his eyes lingering upon their interlaced fingers. His free hand fiddles with the hem of his jacket—a nervous tic that only makes Prompto nervous too. Noctis clears his throat. “I wasn’t totally honest in my text,” he admits, his gaze still drawn downwards. “I actually just want to ask you a question. But I’m not allowed to ask it anywhere but here.”

Noctis takes a slow, shaky breath. Their eyes finally meet, and the look on Noctis’ face makes Prompto feel all too aware of himself, as if the other man were tracking his every minute shift in movement. Finally, Noctis gives his hand a soft squeeze and asks, “Do you want to get married? With … with me.” He says the last words as an afterthought, as though Prompto might need the clarification.

For a long while, Prompto fixes the other man with a blank stare, as though the question had been posed in a language that was foreign to him. As is typical for Prompto, when he finally gives his answer, the words come out wrong. “Do you mean now or, like, ten years from now?”

The effect is immediate. Noctis’ whole body seems to sag from a sudden heaviness. His gaze falls to his feet, eyes moist with disappointment.

Prompto lunges forward in a panic, practically tackling Noctis to the ground with the force of his hug. “Sorry! Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…” He sighs as he loosens his embrace and takes a step back. Noctis shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his stare, and for the first time in Prompto’s life, Noctis seems fragile to him, as if he might crumble from even the slightest rejection. Carefully, Prompto says, “This just seems so sudden. You know?”

Noctis worries his bottom lip, but says nothing to deny his statement. After all, they have yet to even reach the two-year anniversary of their first kiss (not that they celebrate anniversaries … but Prompto secretly keeps track of them anyway). Sometimes, Noctis still seems shy in referring to Prompto as his boyfriend, much less his betrothed.

A part of Prompto—a fairly large part—feels warm and bubbly at the thought of even being asked something so intimate, so binding. Yet the mere thought of marriage feels disorienting, as if all this is happening to him in the wrong order, or at least way, _way_ faster than it’s supposed to.

Noctis idly brushes the back of his hand with his thumb, his brow creased in thought. When he next speaks, his voice is so soft that Prompto barely catches the words. “I already know that you’re the one I want to be with. Why wait?”

There’s a desperation in his tone that Prompto has never heard before. Noctis meets his gaze once more and reaches for his hands with trembling fingers, conveying a silent plea with his eyes. Before Prompto can stop himself, he answers, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Noctis is silent at first, his eyes growing wider with every passing second. "Really?" he eventually asks, in an almost childlike whisper.

Prompto braves the trembling of his own heart and forces a smile onto his lips. He nods. "Really really."

Noctis' own smile dawns slowly, like a faint blush of sunlight at the darkened horizon. He untangles his hand from Prompto’s and lets it hover in the space between them as he summons shards of spectral blue light. The light shimmers like seawater basking in the sun’s warmth, until it solidifies into the form of a palm-sized box lined in the same black velvet as the carpet. He pries its lid open and inside is a pair of titanium rings, curved at the edges and polished to a shine. The only decoration is an inlaid silver braid, no wider than the tip of a pen, that loops through the center of each band.

Prompto struggles to fight back the sudden stinging of his eyes as Noctis gently cradles his hand and slips the ring onto his finger. It feels heavier than it looks, as though anchored by a hidden weight. Prompto turns his hand this way and that, staring at the ring as though entranced.

Noctis clears his throat once more. “These rings … they originally belonged to my mom.”

It’s one of the few times Noctis has ever mentioned his mother to him—and to Prompto, that alone proves the significance of the gesture. “Are you sure I should have this?” he asks, posing the question to himself as much as he does to Noctis.

Noctis smiles and leans forward to plant a chaste kiss on his lips. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

The rest of the day feels lost in fog, as if he were floating on a cloud or enshrouded in a thick mist. The next morning, when they reveal the news to Ignis and Gladio, an oppressive tension hangs over the apartment. Ignis kneads his temple with his knuckles, his lips curled downwards in apparent disapproval.

Gladio grits his teeth so hard that his molars squeak from the force of it. “Have you lost your mind?”

Noctis grips Prompto’s hand with unnecessary strength. His whole body seems to harden, as if to defend against a physical attack. “Nope,” he replies, practically spitting the word out. “Pretty sure I’m still sane.”

“Well, you sure aren’t acting like it.” Gladio closes the gap between them in a few short strides and then jabs a finger directly into Noctis’ chest. “You’re the prince. You don’t get to just do whatever you want, and that includes who to marry and when. There’s a precedent to follow.”

Noctis smacks the other man’s hand from his chest. “So what? Other Lucian kings had multiple partners. King Celeris had a second wife _and_ a husband.”

“Indeed,” Ignis says, his voice taut. “Both of whom he courted only after his royal marriage to the Lady Loreley.”

“Why does the order matter? No one pays attention to the non-royal weddings anyway.” With a sardonic lilt to his voice, Noctis adds, “I bet the only people who still care are you two.”

Gladio’s eyes flash dangerously, lips peeled back in a snarl. He opens his mouth to speak, but instead of addressing Noctis, he abruptly spins to face Prompto. “And what do you have to say about all this?”

Prompto deliberately redirects his gaze to the floor. In a small voice, he answers, “I just want Noct to be happy.” Then there’s an uncomfortable, overextended silence that makes Prompto want to crawl between the cushions of the sofa and hibernate there for the rest of the season. He dares to look up only upon hearing Gladio’s heavy footsteps cut across the room, followed by the sound of the front door swinging open and then shut in quick succession.

Ignis merely sighs. He removes his glasses and cleans the lenses with a pocket handkerchief, his movements tense and deliberate. “I only ask that you two think about this very carefully. Despite Noct’s claims to the contrary, it's a decision that matters a great deal.” Ignis then collects the half-empty plate of food left in Gladio’s wake and retreats to the sink.

Prompto’s gaze falls to the ring now hugging the base of his finger. Ignis’ warning only seems to feed the growing seed of anxiety lodged deep within him. As if sensing his thoughts, Noctis chooses that moment to press a reassuring kiss against the curve of his jaw. Prompto turns to him with a smile … and prays that he made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is Prompto's ring.](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0765/5513/products/1071_large.jpeg?v=1423323289) (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


	15. Nineteen pt.II

The following week passes with the turbulence of a roiling flood, and there are moments when Prompto feels as though he might drown in it. Everyday Noctis meets with the King (and according to Ignis, the King’s council as well), and each time he returns a little tenser than the day before. Ignis and Gladio watch over them with a discrete wariness, though neither of them comment on the unfolding events.

Then one day, Noctis sits Prompto down onto his living room couch and unfolds a map of Lucis onto the table in front of him. He uses a pencil to draw a circle around the city entrance, and then a line down the shortest path to the southern coast. “We can get married at Galdin Quay. It’ll take a full day to drive over there, so if we leave in two days, then we could have the ceremony this weekend.” He glances at Gladio and Ignis, who are deliberately avoiding their gazes. “Dad said we could take the Regalia.”

This seems to surprise Gladio, who openly frowns. “Fine,” he says in a clipped tone. “I’ll make preparations at the palace.”

“And I’ll ready our accommodations at the Quay,” Ignis offers. They each go their separate ways, keeping themselves busy as a means of distraction. Prompto spends the entirety of the next day holed up in his apartment. He devotes some of the time to packing, but most of the afternoon is wasted curled atop his mattress, confused thoughts spinning through his mind like the blurred numbers of a roulette wheel. He passes out at some point, and when he awakens, the morning sunlight only worsens his blooming panic.

Prompto barely makes it to the palace courtyard by their designated meeting time. When he arrives, the Regalia is already fully prepped. Noctis lounges in the backseat, and when he sees Prompto, he visibly brightens. Prompto smiles in return, fighting desperately to hide his nerves. Ignis assists him in loading his bag into the trunk, before locking it and taking his place at the driver’s seat. Gladio wordlessly claims the passenger seat, and Prompto sits in the empty spot beside Noctis.

When he scoots into his seat, Noctis immediately greets him with a peck on the lips. He then laces their fingers together as the engine starts with a dull roar. “Nervous?”

“Juuust a little,” Prompto replies. He makes a conscious effort to quell the trembling in his hands.

Once they clear the outer walls of the city, the steel towers and concrete pathways quickly give way to dirt roads and rocky outcroppings. Creatures of all shapes and sizes roam within a stone’s throw of the roads: grazing garula herds, wandering dualhorns, and large cat-like beasts with whiskers that seem imbued with a life of their own. At one point, Prompto stares up at the sky and spies a monstrous black bird soaring high, high above them.

In the afternoon, they stop at a small rest area to refill their gas. While Noctis and Gladio stop by the Crow’s Nest to order food for the four of them, Prompto follows Ignis into the convenience store across the street. Predictably, Prompto makes a beeline for the snacks and candies section. Nestled between the usual selection of potato chips and chocolate bars is a row of packaged sweet breads molded into the shape of fish. The one directly in front of him is the shape of the catfish native to Lucis … the same fish that Noctis caught on the beach that day, when they first kissed.

Even now, Prompto can still recall so many of the little details, all the seemingly insignificant things that he might normally miss. But then again, that day was not so long ago. Nothing in their relationship occurred all that long ago. It's still too soon to feel anything resembling nostalgia. It's still too soon.

Prompto’s eyes hurt. He feels a sudden wetness on his cheeks, and when he reaches up to touch it with his fingertips, he realizes that he’s crying. There’s a tightness in his chest, like an internal clenching, and now he’s breathing in quick, sharp intakes of breath, as if he's choking on the air itself. When he feels a hand squeeze his shoulder, he jerks away in shock.

Ignis stares him directly in the face, his lips drawn into a thin line. “Are you alright?”

Prompto shakes his head. Between the hiccups of breath, he manages to say, “I don’t know. I … I think I’m freaking out.”

Ignis shepherds him to a secluded corner of the store and uses his body to shield him from the view of any passersby. He then rubs soothing circles into his back. “Deep breaths, Prompto.”

Gradually, he regains his breathing. He uses his palms to wipe at the tears, though fresh droplets continue to run down his face. Once he’s calmed, Ignis quietly asks, “Is it the nerves?”

“Maybe,” Prompto admits. “It’s just … all of this is happening so quickly. I mean, it was just a month ago that we first told each other that … that we love one another. I never thought...” He trails off, ending his comment with a sniffle.

“Does Noct know you feel this way?”

Prompto shakes his head once more. “He’ll feel guilty if I tell him. And he seems so happy right now...”

The next few moments pass in silence. Ignis continues to pat at his back, the way a mother might when burping a baby. “If I may,” he begins, adopting the same careful tone he always does whenever expressing some difficult thought or feeling, “From what I’ve observed, I rather doubt that Noct’s affections for you will wane in the slightest, regardless of what choice you make.”

The implied suggestion hangs heavily in the air between them. At first, Prompto refuses to even consider it. But then he begins to feel a persistent tugging, as if he were at the mercy of some invisible guiding hand. In a voice just above a whisper, Prompto says, “I don’t want to hurt him.”

Ignis’ hand stills. His lips curve into a small smile, one that conveys fondness and sadness in equal measure. “None of us do.”

When his tears finally stop, Prompto and Ignis decide to return to the car. Thankfully, they arrive before Noctis and Gladio. Prompto climbs into the backseat and slumps against the top edge of the closed door. He buries his face into his folded arms, hiding the red puffiness of his eyes. When Noctis noisily clambers into the seat beside him, Prompto pretends to sleep.

They arrive at Galdin Quay just after sundown. As they cross the dock leading to the beach house, Prompto immediately understands why Noctis chose this place above all others. A warm breeze ruffles his hair. The water is calm and remarkably clear, so much so that he can see the bed of coral that crusts the ocean floor. Fish flit past the legs of the dock, their scales glowing brightly against the deep midnight blue of the water.

Ignis reserved two rooms: one with two full-sized beds for him and Gladio and a suite with a single King-sized bed for Prompto and Noctis. Prompto trails behind Noctis, his heartbeat thumping in his ears. When they enter their room, Prompto shuts the door and then lingers in the hallway. Eventually, he clears his throat. “Noct?”

“Yeah?” Noctis replies. He turns to him with a smile, which quickly falters upon seeing his expression. “What’s wrong?”

With some trepidation, Prompto forces himself to look the other in the face. Noctis’ gaze is warm and kind, which only makes his next words that much harder to say. His breath hitches, tears gathering in his eyes once more. Finally, with a quavering voice, Prompto asks, “Remember when you said that I should do what I want, even if you don’t agree?”

Prompto watches the subtle shifts in Noctis’ expression as an immediate understanding crests upon him. He swallows with visible difficulty. “Yeah. I remember.”

Despite his best efforts, Prompto’s tears spill over and drip onto his cheeks. He feels pathetic, to be the one crying when it's his own words that inflict pain upon them both. “I’m sorry, Noct. But I don’t think I’m ready.”

Noctis bows his head, his bangs shielding his eyes from view. He pulls the corners of his lips into something resembling a smile. “It’s okay,” he replies, though the strain in his voice says otherwise. “I understand.”

Prompto brings his hand to his chest and brushes the ring with the pads of his fingers. “Do you want me to give this back?”

He begins to pry the ring off his hand, but Noctis stops him, his fingers circling his wrist. Then Noctis immediately draws back, as if burned. “Keep it,” he says. “I … I want you to have it.”

Prompto nods mutely. He knows it’s selfish … but he wants to continue wearing it, until the day he _is_ ready. Noctis glances down at his own ring before quickly looking away. “If you don’t mind, could we stay here for a couple days anyway? I think Ignis and Gladio would appreciate the vacation.”

“Of course. That’s … that’s fine.”

Noctis nods, though it seems to be more to himself than to Prompto. “I’ll let them know.” He walks past Prompto and reaches for the doorknob, but stops when Prompto abruptly lunges forward and grabs Noctis by the hand. Noctis tenses from the sudden contact, but he doesn’t pull away.

Prompto takes a deep breath, allowing himself this one last bit of selfishness. “I _do_ love you, you know.”

“Yeah,” Noctis says in a pained voice. “I know.”

Prompto releases his hand, and Noctis leaves without a second glance. He then sits atop their bed and waits, trying his best to manage the hollow feeling that gradually consumes him. When Noctis fails to return to their room after half an hour, Prompto curls onto the mattress, and eventually, he falls asleep.

The next morning, barely a word passes between the four of them. Noctis spent a large portion of the night fishing at the dock, and so Ignis sets up his cooking supplies at a nearby campsite to cook the fish for breakfast. As Ignis prepares their meal, Gladio and Prompto walk along the shoreline, while Noctis sits on the rocks further out from the water. When they’re far enough away, Gladio murmurs, “I know it doesn’t feel like it … but you did the right thing.” He then pats Prompto on the shoulder, as if in reassurance. When Prompto fails to respond, Gladio lets his hand fall away. The rest of their walk passes in silence.

By the time they return to the campsite, Ignis has already finished cooking and plating everyone’s food. Prompto turns towards Noctis and raises his arm to wave him over—but he stops when he notices the expression on his face. Noctis stares out at the ocean with an empty look in his eyes, as if he’s not actually there at all, but somewhere far, far outside Prompto’s reach. Prompto follows his gaze, peering beyond the water and into the blue horizon.

He can't help but wonder: if he stares long enough, will he see the same thing Noctis sees?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I know this chapter was rough. Allow me to offer [this video of a bird singing the chocobo theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d81qFaoe010&t=156s) to help ease your pain.
> 
> /hides


	16. Twenty

Between the recent uptick in his freelance jobs and the now-daily cadence of the King’s council meetings, Prompto feels as though he sees Noctis asleep in bed more often than he sees him awake—but Prompto is a firm believer in turning a negative into a positive, and so they both use their busy weekdays to justify their lazy weekends, sometimes spending entire days lounging in bed or shuffling around Prompto’s apartment with blankets draped over their shoulders.

As the months pass, Prompto notices that Noctis writes to Luna more and more often. At first, he thinks little of it; after all, it gives him the opportunity to play with Umbra during the dog’s increasingly frequent visits. But when the news of Noctis and Luna’s royal engagement is broadcasted throughout the city, suddenly and without warning, their letter exchange takes on an entirely different meaning.

The afternoon of the announcement, Prompto receives a text from Noctis that simply reads: _Can you meet me in front of the gate in an hour? We should talk._

Throughout Prompto’s train ride to the palace, there’s a queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. He knows Noctis loves him. He _knows_ it, and yet he can’t help but wonder if this is finally it. The “thanks for everything, it was nice while it lasted” talk, the one he’s been secretly anticipating since the day they first kissed.

Noctis is already waiting at the gate when he arrives. His worry must be visibly apparent because the first thing Noctis does is take his hands within his own and say, “The engagement … it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a formality.” Prompto nods, but the gesture feels robotic, as if he’s moving on reflex alone. Noctis gently squeezes his hands as he continues, “Luna’s known about us for a long time now. She understands.”

This seems to pierce the fog clouding Prompto’s mind. “Really?” he asks with a wobbling, hopeful lilt.

Noctis nods, his lips curving into a small smile. “Yeah. Sometimes I think she realized it even before we did.”

Prompto feels his eyes widen. He thinks of his own letter from Luna, years and years ago, the one that convinced him to talk to Noctis in the first place. He isn’t sure what to do with this new tidbit of information, so he decides not to dwell on it.

Noctis’ smile falters as he suddenly diverts his gaze to the floor. He releases his loose grip on Prompto’s fingers, and instead shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “That aside, I have a favor to ask.” Noctis shyly glances up at him, and to Prompto, it’s the most nervous he’s seen him since … since the day he proposed. After a shaky breath, Noctis says, “Luna and I, we think the peace talks won’t go as well as everyone thinks. The council won’t listen, but … but I can feel it. And I think-” He stops suddenly to bite his lower lip. When he next speaks, his eyes glisten prettily, like bluestone crystals twinkling in the moonlight. “I think it might be safer for you to stay outside of the city for a while. Just until the peace treaty is signed.”

The words hit Prompto with the force of a scorching wind. As is often the case with Noctis, there are things left unsaid, hidden meanings to uncover. It takes Prompto a few moments to find his voice once more. “Noct, I know you want to protect me … but I want to protect _you_ too. If you’re in danger, and I’m not here to help-”

“It’s not like that,” Noctis says. His gaze trails off to the side, his brow pinched in thought. His next words come out slow and strained, almost as if he’s unwilling to say them. “There was a time ... i-in the past. I tried to keep someone safe. But I didn’t take all the precautions I should have, so it … it ended badly. And I never want that to happen again.” Noctis offers his hand once more, and Prompto threads their fingers together, taking pleasure in their small shared warmth. “I know it’s selfish,” Noctis continues, “But could you do this for me? Please.” The last word comes out as a whisper.

Noctis wears an anxious, desperate look that Prompto is growing increasingly familiar with. It’s a look he can’t say no to, and so Prompto nods and smiles through the ache in his chest. “Okay, Noct. You win. But just until the treaty is signed.”

Noctis smiles in return, his shoulders sagging in relief. The kiss that follows is sweet and tender—and Prompto knows in that moment that the pain he feels is worth enduring.

He spends much of the following week finishing up all the remaining freelance work still on his plate. Predictably, he waits till the last minute to pack his luggage. In accordance with Ignis' command-disguised-as-a-suggestion, Prompto brings only one medium-sized suitcase. He heard from Gladio that Lestallum seems caught in a perpetual heat wave, and so he stuffs his luggage full of summer clothes. After packing a week's worth of outfits, he opens the bottom drawer of his cabinet and stares at the pistol hiding within.

Despite Noctis' obvious discomfort whenever Prompto so much as neared a gun, he continued practicing with his pistol in secret at a local gun range. After a few moments of hesitation, he grabs the gun and a case of bullets, slotting then into the narrow gap at the side of his bag.

He meets with Ignis and Noctis at the palace courtyard early the next morning. Prompto gives Ignis a little wave as he tosses his bag into the backseat. Ignis waves back—then diverts his gaze as Noctis wraps an arm around the back of Prompto’s waist and pulls him into a kiss deep enough to bruise. When they part, Prompto bows his head till their foreheads touch, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.

"I'll come get you as soon as I can," Noctis murmurs. “And I’ll call you everyday.”

"Yeah. I know you will."

Noctis kisses him once more before sending him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Take care of yourself." And then, Noctis lets him go.

Prompto climbs into the passenger seat of the car—a vehicle far more modest than the Regalia, but still outfitted in royal black—and turns in his seat as they exit the courtyard, waving at Noctis as they're pulled further and further apart, till he's nothing but a speck in the distance.

They drive west, tracing the trajectory of the sun. By the afternoon, the barren plains of Leide yield to the grassy hills and temperate forests of Duscae. By sunset, they pass the Disc of Cauthess, its crystal shards fanning outwards like blooming petals, each one glowing with an ethereal light.

They stop overnight in a small town just a couple hours east of Lestallum. After dinner at a local restaurant, which consisted of greasy potato wedges and an even greasier burger, they head to the motel down the street. On the short walk over, Prompto hears a monstrous growl in the distance. He squints his eyes, peering past the bright overhead lights and into the darkness beyond.

About half a mile out, he spots a hulking silhouette standing right in the center of the road. It’s far enough away that Prompto can only vaguely make out its shape, but also close enough to see the dull glint of the impossibly large sword clenched in its fist. It’s his first time seeing a daemon in real life. He always assumed that the sight of one would fill him with an instinctual, primal fear, and yet the daemon now before them feels as ordinary to Prompto as any of the daytime beasts. The longer he stares at it, the more it feels … familiar, almost.

Ignis claps a hand onto his shoulder. “Don’t pay any mind to the daemons. The bright lights ward them away.”

Prompto stares for just a moment longer, and then responds with a silent nod as he scurries into the motel. They leave at sunrise the next morning and arrive in Lestallum well before noon.

At first glance, Prompto is a little disappointed to see that Lestallum is much smaller than he anticipated, more of a large town than a proper city like Insomnia. Before the feeling has a chance to settle, the sound of acoustic guitars and hand drums drifts out from an open courtyard, accompanied with the scent of spices and grilled meat—and in an instant, Prompto decides that it might not be so bad here, after all.

Ignis escorts him to a hotel tucked away in the west end, where he’ll be sharing a suite with Gladio’s family friend, who Gladio merely described as “an older guy named Jared.” The moment they arrive, Prompto spots the man who must be Jared already waiting for him in the lobby. He barely gets out a “hello” before the young boy at Jared’s side bounds over to him, eyes wide and arms flailing with unbound energy. He comes to a full stop directly in front of Prompto and says in a single breath, “Hi, I’m Talcott! Your name is Prompto, right? Wanna go to the market with me? There’s a lot of cool toys there!”

Talcott stares up at him expectantly, bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. It feels like an enthusiasm for friendship borne of too much time spent alone—an emotion that Prompto can relate to almost painfully well. He crouches till he’s eye-level with Talcott and says, “‘Course I wanna go! But first, I gotta drop this guy-” he jerks his thumb in Ignis’ direction, “-back off at the car. Wanna come with?”

“Sure!” Talcott responds a little too loudly, accompanying the statement with a small hop of excitement. After dropping Prompto’s bag off with the attendants, the three of them wave goodbye to Jared and then make their way back to the parking lot near the town entrance.

“Just as I suspected,” Ignis says, throwing Talcott an amused glance. “A new friend already. I daresay you’ll do quite well here.”

“Yup, I’m just Mister Popularity,” Prompto says with a sigh. In a more uncertain tone, he asks, “It’s only gonna be for a few weeks, right?”

“That’s the current plan,” Ignis replies, in a way that inspires little confidence. “In the meantime, don’t hesitate to call any one of us if you run into problems. Or even if you don’t.” Ignis flashes him a smile. He then slides into the driver’s seat of the car and waves as he pulls out of the parking lot, before disappearing through the long tunnel leading back towards the city.

Before Prompto can dwell too much on Ignis’ departure, he feels Talcott tug the hem of his shirt. “Prompto? You’re good friends with the prince, right?”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, ignoring the way the pain in his chest swells at the reminder of Noctis. “I’d say we’re pretty close.”

Talcott’s eyes go wide with admiration. He fidgets nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he asks, “Do you think I could be friends with the prince someday?”

“Of course you can! It’s not even hard, as long as you know his weaknesses.” He pauses for dramatic effect and then says in a conspiratorial whisper, “If you bribe him with video games and junk food, that’ll practically seal the deal. I guarantee it.” Prompto grins and reaches down to ruffle Talcott’s hair, which garners him a delighted laugh.

As Talcott tugs him towards the market, Prompto takes in the sights and sounds all around him—and though he knows he’ll only be here for a short while, for some reason, he can’t help the feeling that this is the beginning of something new.


	17. Twenty pt.II

Prompto is eating lunch at the market when he hears that his home has been destroyed. The news blares over the transistor radio on the table next to his, and he listens as if entranced, the taste of barbecued meat souring on his tongue.

His first thought is a selfish one. Noctis, Ignis, and Gladio are somewhere in Leide, far from the specter of death that now hovers over the crown city. Millions have died, but the ones he cares for most are safe.

Prompto's second thought is more of a feeling. The queasiness in his gut rises to his throat and he pitches to the side, retching till there's nothing left inside him. He pays the waiter extra in apology for the mess and then stumbles back to the hotel. When Noctis fails to answer his phone the first (and second and third) time he calls, Prompto lies in his bed and stares up at the spinning ceiling fan above him, listening to the pounding of his own heartbeat.

When he finally receives a call back, the sun has long since set and his room is swathed in darkness, leaving the backlight from his phone as the only source of illumination. He answers after the first ring, and the quiet “hey” he receives from the other end of the line instantly soothes his frayed nerves.

“Hey,” Prompto replies, with an audible relief. But then, he realizes he doesn’t know what to say next. An apology feels inadequate, but the words “I’m so sorry, Noct” still spill from his lips, like rainwater from a flooded basin.

“I’ll be okay,” Noctis says, but there’s a forced absence of emotion, as though he were speaking on autopilot. “Don’t … don’t worry about me.” They both know it’s an impossible request; though Noctis tries to hide it, Prompto can hear the pain lurking at the edges of his words. The sound of it fills the silence that settles between them, like the echoes of a plucked thread.

When Noctis next speaks, it’s with a firmer, fuller voice. “Gladio’s sister will be arriving in Lestallum tomorrow morning. He’s wondering if you could look after her, when she gets there? I think she’d appreciate the company.”

“Yeah, of course. Tell the big guy he can count on me.” Prompto only met Iris on a few occasions, but each time, she never failed to make an impression. He thinks of her smile, and how the mere sight of it melts all of Gladio’s hard edges.

In the background, Prompto hears Gladio’s muffled voice, layered over the steady crackling of a fire. Then there’s a distinctly feminine laugh, as calming and melodic as the tinkling of a bell. “Is she with you guys now?” Prompto asks.

There’s a moment of confused silence, followed by a mumbled, “Oh. Actually … that’s Luna.” It takes several drawn-out moments for the words to truly sink in. Noctis clears throat, seeming suddenly uncomfortable. “We met with her near Hammerhead, just a few hours ago. My … my dad and some of the Kingsglaive helped her escape.” His teeth click as his mouth snaps shut of its own accord. He lets out a shuddering breath.

“Noct,” Prompto says, his tone gentle.

Before he can say anything more, Noctis forces himself to continue, “With everything that’s happened, Luna thinks we should commune with the Archaen before heading to Lestallum. So it’ll take a while longer till we can … see each other again.”

“Oh,” Prompto replies, softly. He tries to ignore the gnawing pressure in his chest and then raises the pitch of his voice, attempting to sound cheerful despite the clenching of his throat. “I understand. Talcott and I can hold down the fort till you guys get here.”

“Thanks,” Noctis mumbles, so quietly that Prompto barely hears it. For a long while, no words pass between them—and although Prompto normally dislikes long silences, this one feels … comforting, almost.

“Prompto,” Noctis eventually says, his voice trembling with an abrupt outpouring of emotion, “I’m sorry … for everything. I wish I could’ve done more.”

Prompto hears Noctis’ breath catch. His grip on his phone tightens, as if he were clutching Noctis’ hand instead of a cold slab of plastic. He realizes with a sudden clarity that sound is a poor substitute for touch … but still, he hopes his feelings will reach him. “Noct, you tried your best. You always do. That’s one of the things I love about you.” He pauses in reflexive embarrassment before continuing, “Even though you couldn’t save everyone, it’s not all bad, right? You saved Luna. And … you saved me, too.” Prompto says the last words so quietly that he barely hears them himself.

As is so often the case with Noctis, the answer Prompto gets is not at all the one he expects. “No,” Noctis says his voice so tender that Prompto knows he’s smiling. “ _You’re_ the one who saved _me_. As long as you’re safe ... I think I can keep going.”

Prompto lets out a sound that’s caught between a squeak and an embarrassed laugh, and it’s enough to make Noctis laugh too. In the background, he hears a suggestive “gotten rather hot in here, hasn’t it?” from Ignis, a teasing “careful or Prom might swoon” from Gladio, and a laugh from Luna that’s easily louder than her first—but for once, Noctis pays them no mind.

After they say their goodbyes, Prompto sets a candle atop his windowsill and uses a match to light the wick. He peers up at the glittering stars, most of which are still visible despite the bright lights strewn throughout the town. He tries to pick out the new star that’s formed to mark the King’s passing, but there are too many to count, and he doesn’t know the star charts as well as Noctis does. So instead, he closes his eyes, bows his head, and whispers, “Thank you for being so nice to me. Please continue to look out for Noct. He’s gonna need the help.” Then he snuffs the flame with a single breath and finally sleeps.

The next morning, Talcott awakens him just before Iris is due to arrive. He notices that Talcott seems to be hiding something behind his back. “What’ve you got there, buddy?” Prompto asks with a yawn.

Talcott brings his hands to the front of his chest and reveals the cactuar figurine clasped between his fingers. It’s colored the same shade of green as the real-life creature and sits atop an unpainted wooden base. “This is my cactuette. My mom says it’s good luck, so I always carry it around … but I think you need more good luck than me right now.” He holds out the figurine, his eyes shyly pointed at his feet. “Though you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

Prompto smiles, his fingers brushing against the varnished wood as he accepts the offered gift. He places the figurine next to the candle on his windowsill and then heads to the town entrance with Talcott, who playfully swings their linked hands as they walk.

After a short wait, they see Jared drive into the parking lot, with Iris safely tucked away in the passenger seat. Iris waves them over as Jared slides the car into its usual spot. “I know I just got here,” she says once they’re near enough, “But we passed an adorable little chocobo farm on the way over! It doesn’t look like the rentals are open, but the racetrack still is.”

It’s only when Prompto sees Iris up close that he notices her slightly swollen eyelids, which are touched with a redness that has yet to fully fade. She claps her hands together and asks in what is likely the cheeriest voice she can muster, “Sooo, are you two down for a visit? It’ll be fun!” She then gives them a bright, brave smile, as if to erase all evidence of her tears.

Prompto tries to match her smile with one of his own. "Heck yeah, I'm down! Chocobos, here we come!"

He volunteers to drive, freeing Jared to rest at the hotel. Iris hops into the passenger seat, while Prompto buckles Talcott into the center seat at the back. The road traffic is light that day, which proves to be a blessing; Iris is a lively conversationalist and thus a constant distraction, leading Prompto to nearly skid the car against the guardrails on two different occasions.

At the farm, Prompto takes more pictures than he has in weeks: photos of the chocobos in their pens, a photo of Iris hoisting Talcott onto a smaller white chocobo, another of Iris holding a racing medal (after beating Prompto by an embarrassing margin), and enough selfies to fill up an entire album.

It's almost dark when they leave, and so they decide to spend the night at a nearby town. While Iris and Talcott rest at the motel room, Prompto ventures to the local Crow’s Nest to buy dinner for the three of them, as punishment for losing the chocobo race. He trudges back to the room carrying three trays worth of fries and salmon fillets, only to find Talcott already passed out in bed.

Iris sits on a worn leather couch squeezed into a corner of the room. On the table in front of her are rows and rows of photographs, neatly laid out in a grid. When Iris sees Prompto enter, she jumps to her feet, wipes away the tears trailing down her cheeks, and begins to gather the photos into a pile. "Sorry! I should've asked before taking these."

Prompto sets the food onto the edge of the table and gently lays his hand atop Iris’ wrist. “It’s okay. Leave them.”

He scoots into the empty spot beside her and silently scans the photos. A few are closeups of Gladio, but most are scenic shots: a photo of the beach near Noctis’ apartment, taken just a few hours before their first kiss; a slightly elevated shot of Leviathan trail on the night they went ice skating; a picture of a grove of cherry trees at the imperial garden, the day after his graduation. Looking at them now, the photos feel like a visual timeline, a chronicle of all the big moments in his life that shaped him into the person he is.

Iris picks up a photo of the waterside amusement park, which Prompto took when he visited with Noctis just a year prior. She smiles at it, swiping at a stray teardrop. “This was my favorite place in the whole city. When I was a kid, my dad would take us there each spring, right when the rides reopened. And my brother would always tease me for being too short to go on the roller coasters.” She places the photo back onto the table with extreme care, as if the weight of her memories were trapped within the film. In a quieter voice, she continues, “It doesn’t feel real. How can all of this just be … gone? In one night?”

Prompto’s nails dig into the fabric of the cushion underneath him. He heard about the extent of the damage on the radio, how entire districts were reduced to rubble or ash. Even if he somehow sneaks back into the city, it‘s unlikely that he even has a home to return to.

After a moment of hesitation, Prompto rubs Iris’ back in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. “It’s not gone. Not forever, anyway. It might take a while, but we’ll get it all back ... someday.”

Iris smiles and nods, blinking away the moisture gathering in her eyes. She balls her hands into fists in a show of determination. “Yeah, you’re right! We just … need to stay positive.”

Shortly afterwards, Iris scoots into bed with Talcott, their dinners left forgotten in the fridge. When Noctis calls later that night, Prompto sneaks out onto the fire escape for privacy. “Hey,” Noctis says, as nonchalant as ever.

Prompto can’t help the smile that creeps onto his lips. “Heya, handsome.”

They talk well into the night, first about the chocobo race (that Prompto graciously _allowed_ Iris to win, of course), followed by a far more fantastical story about a weapon Noctis retrieved from an ancient tomb. Prompto closes his eyes while Noctis speaks—and as he takes in the sound of the other's voice, he can almost numb himself to the weight of everything they've lost.


	18. Twenty pt.III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So unfortunately, I'll be out of town for all of next week, and it's unlikely I'll be able to work on this fic while I'm gone. Apologies for the potentially long wait before the next update... :(

Prompto sees his first magitek soldier on the outskirts of Lestallum, shuffling to-and-fro like a windup doll trapped in a shoebox. It walks with a jerky, shambling gait, as if its every movement requires deliberate calculation. Though it never attempts to enter the town itself, its mere presence deeply unnerves Prompto, so much so that he instantly abandons his afternoon walk and retreats to the safety of the hotel.

The incident lingers in his mind like a bad omen. In the days that follow, he notices a steady trickle of infantrymen drift in and out town. Each one dons the full-bodied iron suit of the Niflheim army, which _should_ be an impossible feat, considering Lestallum’s constant, sweltering humidity. Save for the arthritic creaks and pops of their metal joints, they’re unnaturally quiet and unobtrusive, like wandering ghosts. Yet despite the utter wrongness of their appearance, Prompto still prefers them to the alternative. After all, at least these ones move like humans.

They even talk like humans—which Prompto quickly learns when, during one of his weekly grocery runs, he sees one of them corner Talcott at the opposite end of the market. He rushes through the narrow gaps between the stalls and intervenes just as the soldier asks, in an eerily monotone voice, for Talcott’s full name and place of residence. Prompto gently takes Talcott’s hand, which trembles within his own. He claims to be his older brother, a lie that slips from his mouth with surprising ease. After lobbing a few more routine questions, the soldier loses interest and waves them away.

Talcott begins sobbing the moment they leave the market, and Prompto stops at a quiet side street and holds him close, patting his back till his tears run dry. After that day, Prompto purchases a leg holster for his pistol, which he keeps on his person at all times. Just in case.

Prompto mentions the soldiers to Noctis during one of their many phone calls. He receives an abrupt silence, followed by a halting, carefully worded question. “Other than the soldiers, have you seen … anyone strange? Like a … a guy in a black hat?”

Prompto cocks a brow at the description, which is somehow both suspiciously specific and yet too vague to reference anyone in particular. “Nope, not ringing any bells. Should it?”

“...No, not necessarily. But if you do see anyone like that, just … just stay as far away as you can. Don’t attract his attention. He’s a Nif, and he’s dangerous.”

As with much of what Noctis says of late, Prompto senses some hidden truth to his words, like a secret enclosed within a hardened shell. A froth of questions threaten to bubble from his throat—but Noctis’ inflection is terse and guarded; it’s a voice that doesn’t welcome further inquiry. So Prompto mutes his curiosity and says in what he hopes is an upbeat tone, “Right, avoid any and all black hat wearers. Got it.”

He hears what sounds like a huff of amusement. In a voice that sounds noticeably less strained, Noctis replies, “He’ll also be wearing a ton of clothes, despite the heat. Must be a Niflheim thing.”

Prompto shares the warning about The Man In The Hat with Iris, who responds with a curious tilt of her head and then a flippant shrug. Neither of them likes to dwell too long on Niflheim’s now unavoidable presence in their lives, or on what happened to their home, or on the oppressive weight that’s taken root in the absence of comfort and familiarity.

So they both find ways to distract themselves. Prompto scoops up every photography job he can get his hands on. Iris does something similar, but rather than the hard edges of a camera, her hands settle upon the arms and waists of besotted young men. For the most part, Prompto pretends he doesn’t notice. But when he sees Iris waving goodbye to a boy with hair as orange as a stoked fire and freckles even more prominent than his own, Prompto can’t help but quip, “A redhead this time, huh? Mixing things up?”

Iris gives him a tight-lipped smile as she climbs the steps to the hotel, before coming to a full stop directly in front of him. Then, with a strength much too monstrous for someone so tiny, she grabs a fistful of his collar and jerks him down till they’re eye-level. “You _better_ not tell my brother about this.”

Prompto stumbles backwards, causing him to nearly trip over his own feet. “I won’t. I won’t! It’s not like that’s a conversation I’m dying to have with him anyway.”

Her eyes narrow as she inspects his expression, as though squinting hard enough might allow her to access his innermost thoughts. Satisfied with what she sees, her face melts into its usual bright expression. She rises to the tips of her toes to give him a peck on the cheek, and then smoothes the spot on his shirt that she crumpled with her fist just moments prior. “Thanks, Prom! You’re the best!”

“Yeah,” Prompto says with a weary sigh. “You bet I am.”

Prompto follows her through the hotel to their suite on the second floor. They find Talcott sprawled on the floor next to the radio, listening to Kenny Crow’s bizarrely popular talk show. Prompto crouches down next to him and says, “Hey, little guy. I just got another job from Vyv. Wanna help me take the photos?”

Talcott lights up like a firework set ablaze. He scrambles off the floor and immediately runs to the corner where Prompto’s photography equipment now permanently resides. Prompto hoists the strap of his tripod case onto his shoulder, a gesture which Talcott mirrors with the camera bag.

“Where are we going this time?” Talcott asks once they’ve stepped outside.

“This one should be a piece of cake! He just wants a couple shots of the Disc from the overlook.” Prompto glances upwards, towards the hazy plume of black smoke visible even at this distance. When they reach the overlook, they manage to nab an empty spot at the far edge of the wall. Prompto sets up the tripod, while Talcott gingerly lifts the camera from the bag and secures the mounting plate before handing it to him.

Prompto fixes the camera atop the tripod and aims the lens at the Disc. The meteorite pulses with an unnatural light, even during the daytime. Today, it seems particularly angry. Great pillars of smoke billow from its crystalline peaks, rising from some unseen pyre, as though it were being cremated from the inside out. Vyv might not have told him why he wanted photos of the Disc, but his reasons were easy to imagine; it was obvious to anyone with eyes that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

“Isn’t the prince going to the Disc?” Talcott asks as Prompto lines up the shot. He takes two pictures in quick succession.

“That’s what he said.” In a noticeably drier voice, he adds, “But between that, the military outposts, and the tombs of his ancestors, I have trouble keeping it all straight.”

He takes one last photo, a wide shot that includes the surrounding landscape. As he moves to detach the camera from the tripod, an unfamiliar voice at his back asks, “Pardon the intrusion. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but you two were speaking so loudly that I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Prompto glances towards the direction of the voice—and he feels something seize up inside him. The man now before him is practically drowning in cloth. Multiple scarves drape the man’s neck and broad shoulders, adding further weight to the long, heavy coat that trails down to his ankles. Inevitably, Prompto’s gaze lingers upon the black hat perched atop the man’s unruly mop of hair.

His fear must show because Talcott hides behind him like a frightened cub, his small hands clutching at the hem of his shirt. Prompto is suddenly very thankful that his camera shields his ring finger from the stranger’s prying eyes.

“You wouldn’t happen to be acquainted with His Highness?” the man continues, undeterred.

Prompto gives him a half-hearted shrug, swallows his anxiety with a dry gulp, and says in a purposefully evasive tone, “I dunno. In a way, aren’t all Lucians acquainted with the prince?”

“Ah. Then as a non-Lucian myself, I’m afraid I’m deprived of that privilege. What a pity.” Something dark and slippery coils around the curled edges of the man’s smile. He removes his hat and bows in a single graceful, sweeping motion—but it feels too rehearsed, like an imitation of politeness rather than anything sincere. “My name is Ardyn Izunia. Might you grant me the honor of knowing yours?”

Though he doubts the name Prompto means anything to this … this Ardyn, something deep and instinctual tells him to reply, “I’m Vyv. It’s, uh … nice to meet you.”

Ardyn straightens his posture. His eyes flick towards Talcott, who trembles under his fleeting scrutiny. Ardyn glances away in apparent disinterest and shifts his gaze towards the burning Disc. “I thought the prince might have need of me in his journey to the Archean. So I came here and waited. Alas, with the ever dutiful Oracle at his side, it appears he won’t require my assistance, after all.” He looks Prompto directly in the face, his eyes glittering from some private amusement. “It’s a lonesome thing, to be so unneeded. Don’t you agree?”

Whatever response Prompto might’ve had seems to wither in his gut. He tightens his grip on his camera, but otherwise masks the sting of the man’s words. After offering a clipped “I wouldn’t really know,” he turns back to his camera display and pretends to fiddle with the controls. The pistol strapped to his leg seems to double in weight, as if beckoning to be used—an impulse that Prompto finds increasingly difficult to repress. At his side, he feels Talcott tug on his shirt once more, attempting to pull them both away.

Ardyn’s smile flattens in sudden displeasure. He looks put-off in the way a child might when dealing with a defective toy. Prompto feels a palpable relief when the man takes a step away, and then another. “I’m afraid I must take my leave,” the man says, in a quiet murmur that somehow carries through the space between them, “But when you next see the prince, please tell him that I shall await him in the city across the sea.” Then in a sickeningly singsong voice, he asks, “You will tell him for me, won’t you?”

This time, Prompto says nothing in response. He keeps his eyes on his camera and pretends not to hear. In the periphery of his vision, he sees Ardyn take another step away; oddly, his footsteps make no sound, despite his plodding gait. When Prompto dares to look once more, the man is nowhere to be seen. A rattled breath of air escapes his mouth, almost desperately, like a caged animal set loose.

He feels another tug from Talcott and finally meets the other’s eyes, which have turned watery from fright. “Can we go now? Please?” Then quieting his voice to a whisper, he adds, “Before that man comes back.”

Prompto nods, his lips pulling into a shaky, uncertain smile. “Yeah. We can go.”

Talcott glances nervously towards the spot where Ardyn once stood. “Is he … is he gonna hurt the prince?”

Prompto’s smile falters. With a heavy heart, he finally withdraws his hand from the camera and lifts it to his face, his lips gently pressing against the ring at the base of his finger. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “But I get the feeling he might try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How ... Iris doing?" Gladio asks, his question interrupted by a short burst of static. A storm rages all across Duscae, and naturally, the cell reception is terrible. "I'm kinda worried. She's a city ... at heart. Small towns usually bore her."
> 
> Prompto can't help his amused snort. "Yeah, well, I'd say she's definitely finding ways to keep herself..." He clears his throat. "Busy."
> 
> There's a long pause, then: "And what does _that_ mean?"
> 
> Prompto freezes. "Uhh, I-I think Jared needs help with something downstairs. Gotta go!"
> 
> "Wait a min-"
> 
> "See ya!" Prompto squeaks as he hangs up.
> 
> \-----
> 
> Iris is an incorrigible flirt and no one can stop her. (~˘▾˘)~


End file.
